Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë
by enembee
Summary: Long ago the Forests of Valbonë were closed to wizards and all were forbidden to set foot within them. So when, at the end of his second year, Harry becomes disenchanted with his life at Hogwarts, where else could he and his unlikely band of cohorts want to go? Join Harry on a trip into the unknown, where the only certainty is that he has absolutely no idea what he's doing.
1. Chapter 1

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë  
by enembee**

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**A/N: **Hi there and welcome to Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë, or how enembee tried to solve his writer's block with The Sun Dog and failed miserably. This was an attempt to write a thousand words every day an endeavour which I've surpassed in the three weeks I've been writing it. This is almost nothing like any of my other fics, as it's a straight forward divergence from canon after second year and is, mostly, a pretty innocent story full of adventure and humour. I hope you give it a read and I hope if you do that it entertains you to read it as much as it did for me to write it. Cheers.

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**Chapter One**

_The mind is its own place, and in itself  
Can make a heav'n of hell, a hell of heav'n.  
_**~John Milton**

_She won't wake. _

_Little Ginny's been writing in it for months and months, telling me all her pitiful worries. _

_Dumbledore's been driven out of the castle by the mere memory of me!_

_This is what Dumbledore sends his defender! A songbird and an old hat! Do you feel brave, Harry Potter? Do you feel safe now?_

_No! Leave the bird! Leave the bird! The boy is behind you! You can still smell him! Kill him!_

_Fawkes, you were brilliant Fawkes._

_You're dead Harry Potter. Dead. Even Dumbledore's bird knows it. _

_I'm going to sit here and watch you die, Harry Potter. Take your time. I'm in no hurry._

_So ends the famous Harry Potter. Alone in the Chamber of Secrets, foraken by his friends, defeated at last by the Dark Lord he so unwisely challenged. You'll be with your dear Mudblood mother soon, Harry. _

_Do you feel brave, Harry Potter?_

_Do you feel safe now?_

_Do you feel safe?_

_Do you?_

The rest of the term passed in a haze of blazing sunshine. Hogwarts was back to normal, with only a few, small differences: Defence Against the Dark Arts classes were cancelled and Lucius Malfoy had been sacked as a school governor. Draco was no longer strutting around the school as though he owned the place. On the contrary, he looked resentful and sulky. On the other hand, Ginny Weasley was perfectly happy again.

And Harry Potter couldn't sleep.

The world was ablaze with the colour of the setting sun. The deep red and yellows captured and reflected by the perfect mirrored surface of the water. He stood, transfixed, as the world let the day slip away in a halo of fiery light.

Around him, his peers laughed and ran. Their cries of simple pleasure rang from the sandstone walls. Yet he barely noticed them, their exuberance nothing more than the ghostly echoes of something that had long since died within.

It was the last day of term and nothing would ever be simple again.

His day ought to have been easy, ought to have been the idyllic conclusion to a year fraught with adventure and danger, ought to have drawn his second year at Hogwarts neatly to a close. Instead, he couldn't help but feel as though it were the beginning of the end.

It wasn't the killing that so voraciously tore into his happiness— he'd killed the year before and somehow that had changed almost nothing. It was easy to rationalize. Kill, or be killed. It could have been natural if it hadn't been quite so obscene. His desperation had lent his mind a defence.

But in the chamber beneath the school, it hadn't been another's life that hung in the balance. It hadn't been another lying in a crumpled heap of robe and bone, their blood gushing onto the unforgiving stone floor. It hadn't been another that had almost slipped from this world.

He had almost died.

It had been naught but a matter of seconds but in that moment his innocence had fallen away like the petals of a picked flower. In those few seconds he'd exchanged this astounding paradise of magic for a twisted nightmare that stretched on before him, endlessly.

Even here, surrounded by his friends as they laughed merrily and teased each other, he felt isolated and alone. He watched with half-hearted interest as the twins screwed up a piece of parchment and enchanted it to fly around Ron's head, bouncing off it at random.

Nearby, stretched out in the sun, Ginny and Hermione whispered conspiratorially. While Neville, Dean and Seamus played with exploding cards in an attempt to set the dry grass on fire and Lee Jordan let his tarantula run over his hands.

Each of them had taken it upon themselves to keep Harry's company as much as possible for the last few weeks. It was almost as though they could sense his uneasy mind and unpleasant thoughts.

Ron, finally tiring of the enchanted parchment, raised his wand and used a spell they'd learned in the last couple of days.

"Aresto Momentum!" he snapped, aiming his wand dead at the ball.

To his astonishment the paper cloned itself twice more and each of them resumed striking him in the face. Flummoxed, he staggered away, flapping his hands around his face.

"Incendio!" he said quickly, waving his wand around at the parchment.

To Ron's dismay and the twins' delight, he found that instead of having three aggressive pieces of parchment hitting him in the face, he had three burning pieces of parchment battering his face.

While Fred rolled around laughing, George leaned over to Harry and explained how it was done.

"We stuck a bounding charm on it, you see," he said, grinning from ear to ear. "Completely pointless on its own, but it makes for some strange spell interactions. If you try and stop or vanish it, it multiplies and if you try and remove any of the enchantments other than the bounding charm, it'll double in speed."

"Cool," said Harry, trying to seem enthused and failing magnificently. "I'll have to remember that one."

"Trade secrets y'know," said George, winking, then went back to egging on the parchment.

Not able to stand any more, Harry excused himself and left his friends beside the lake.

"Harry," called Hermione after him, but he ignored it.

Almost inevitably, his feet walked the same tired old paths, drawing him through the winding castle. Each of the corridors he passed through was bathed in a seductive orange glow that was entirely lost on Harry. He realised with neither a great deal of astonishment or interest that he'd arrived before Dumbledore's gargoyle.

The huge stone creature gave Harry a lingering look and then stood aside.

"You can go up if you like," he said kindly.

"Thank you," whispered Harry.

Ensconced once more in the Headmaster's office, Harry couldn't manage much more than staring at his own hands. Dumbledore sat opposite him with neither a smile on his lips or twinkle in his eye. Indeed, their expressions were almost mirror reflections; long, drawn, sad faces. One conflicted and the other withdrawn.

"Is there anything I can do, Harry?" asked Dumbledore kindly.

Harry shook his head, opened his mouth and then shut it again. Not because he had nothing to say, but because there was so much he wanted to say he felt that if he started he'd almost certainly never stop.

But Dumbledore seemed to understand this and nodded quietly. Content to sit in silence with his young student and merely console him with his presence. The atmosphere was as stifling as the long, morbid tones of a funeral, but Harry knew it wasn't a corpse they were burying, but his innocence.

He felt a sudden impulse to scream, to shout, to bang things together, anything to break the silence. Anything to feel something other than the strange phantom emotions that ghosted across the surface of his mood.

But he decided against it.

He was too tired after all.

The minutes of silence dragged on and before Harry knew it, he noticed that the sky had grown dark and overcast. The sun had swept below the horizon and night had stolen in while he was distracted.

Eventually Dumbledore looked away from his close scrutiny of Harry and rose behind his desk. His absurdly colourful robes hanging around his neck like a noose. He gave Harry a small smile and gestured to the door.

"I have an appointment at the Ministry, Harry," he said softly. "You're welcome to stay here, of course."

"Thank you Headmaster," said Harry softly. "I think I'll stay a little while longer."

Dumbledore's sad smile didn't fade away, but he nodded slightly.

"As you wish."

The Headmaster crossed his office, stepped around Harry's chair and opened the door. Yet Harry heard him falter and pause.

"I fear I'm repeating myself, Harry," said Dumbledore quietly. "But remember, help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it."

For a minute Harry hovered on the edge of tears and anger. A second later, the damn inside his head burst and everything began to tumble out of his mouth, in one completely incoherent stream.

"I can't sleep Professor," he blurted. "It's like I don't know where I am. I'm so lost. I'm just drifting around. Tom Riddle killed me, or as good as and I can't— I don't feel the same. I feel like someone's scooped me out and left this shell in its place.

"And I can't sleep properly. I don't have dreams anymore, I only have nightmares. When I dream now it's dark. There's no way out of it. There's nothing to take me from the darkness. There's nowhere to go. It's hot and dark and quiet. No matter how far I go, I can run forever, and it never ends."

The silence that accompanied his outburst seemed to stretch on forever and when he looked around, the doorway was empty. Again Harry felt a little burst of rage.

"Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it," he muttered sarcastically but his eyes fell on a familiar lump in the corner of the room.

Harry stood and crossed the office and lifted the crumpled sorting hat from its perch on the shelf beside the door. He closed his eyes and reached inside. His fingers closed around the handle of Gryffindor's sword and he withdrew it easily. It shimmered lazily as it lay in his hand, strange blue patterns running lethargically up and down its surface as it caught the light.

"Potter?" came a voice from behind him and Harry turned to meet the dark, intimidating stare of Severus Snape.

"Professor," replied Harry curtly.

"What are you doing here Potter?" asked Snape in an icy voice. "The Headmaster's office is out of bounds."

"He said I could stay," snapped Harry, heat rising to his cheeks.

"And play with a priceless magical artefact?" asked Snape and held out his hand for the sword. "Get out Potter, before I give you detention every night for the rest of your time here."

Harry hesitated, his cheeks flushing with the unfairness of it all, Dumbledore had invited him to stay. The Potions Master took a step forward, his dark eyes flashing, his hand still outstretched and Harry brought the sword up, as quick as a flash.

"Stay back," he ordered, but his entire arm shook as he held the heavy blade. "Dumbledore said."

Snape's eyes narrowed to slits.

"Don't be ridiculous, Potter," snapped the professor, his hand falling away and the normal loathing expression masking his face. "Put the sword down."

Harry thought he probably ought to comply, but part of him was beyond caring, beyond logic, beyond anything. Snape drew his wand and Harry moved instantly, slashing out with the sword and neatly cutting it in two.

The professor stepped backward as Harry approached again, the blade poised at the man's throat, his arm perfectly still now. Something new flashed in Snape's expression, but it wasn't fear.

"Don't follow me," said Harry, his tone like thunder.

Snape took another step backward and raised his palms.

Harry threw the Sorting Hat on his head and fled. Though he had no idea where he was going his feet carried him effortlessly through the darkly twisting passages of the school. He ran and ran and ran, until he abruptly collided with someone travelling in the other direction.

The small blonde first year almost went crashing to the ground but Harry swept in and caught her in the arm that wasn't carrying the sword. He turned with her body weight and righted her with the same single movement, momentarily lifting her feet from the ground as he spun with her.

She came back to the stone floor laughing and spun gracefully on her tiptoes, then turned to face Harry. She looked up and down him with interest and Harry couldn't help but be caught by her incredible blue eyes that sparkled in the light from the torches.

"My, my," she said, a serene smile on her lips. "Mister Gryffindor, you dance divinely."

Harry looked from his red crest to the sword in his hand and smiled, then regarded the blonde girl a little closer. She was effervescent, happy and burned his eyes like the sun.

"Has anyone ever told you, you look like an angel?" asked Harry, with the acute awareness that reality was falling apart around him.

"You, every time you see me," she said. "All your life."

All his life.

Harry didn't know what she meant by that.

Harry wasn't sure he could remember anything but these elongated seconds. He couldn't remember where he'd been, who he'd been with, what he'd been doing. The world spun around him, the castle walls cracking beneath his gaze. He shut his eyes fast.

When he opened them again, his fingers were entwined with those of the small blonde first year. She gazed at him with something that was almost pity, but that was closer to empathy. She lifted their hands and pressed her lips against his fingers. He was overcome with an unfamiliar emotion but it faded as quickly as it came, only to be replaced by a deep emptiness.

"I was the same, once," she whispered and Harry felt as though he might lose himself in her slow, melodic voice. "Purposelessly slipping from place to place. Twisted up inside like a ball of paper. I know how it feels, I think."

The wind rattled the panes of glass in the window.

"Can you hear the breeze whisper to us?" asked Harry and turned his head slightly.

"Yes," she said, the words escaping her lips like an ancient secret of apocalyptic significance. "And if you want, you can let it take a hold of you and carry you away. Let the breeze take you, Harry Potter, if it helps you be free."

He nodded, released her hand and was running again. Out of the castle he ran, down the tiny paths that criss-crossed the ground like a child's doodle and past Hagrid's house. Hedwig joined him on that final leg down to the Forbidden Forest, knowing somehow that he needed her.

He stared into the depths of the forest and the forest whispered all its little secrets to him. The secret glades where the unicorns cavorted, the pitch black places where the acromantulas clicked, the shady spots where the bowtruckles sung their hypnotic ballads to the stars. The trunks, packed so tightly together, bled into each other. The rough bark spiralling and collapsing as though they were being smudged by a painter's brush.

In the distance he could hear his name being called; the brusque, impatient calls of Snape. The terrified, worried sounds of McGonagall, the timid, high pitched squeal of Flitwick and thirty other voices he didn't recognise.

Behind him, the motor purred. He turned to face the bright blue Anglia, its paintwork scratched and scuffed by the year in the forest. He let his fingers trace the curves of its bonnet and it purred slightly louder, drowning the approaching voices.

"She told me to let the breeze take me," said Harry.

In this moment he realised how leaden he felt, first noticed the exhaustion that wracked his body, felt the tears that were pouring from his eyes and running over his cheeks. Yet he didn't know why he cried, he didn't feel sad. He didn't feel much of anything.

The voices were closer now and Harry looked to the sky and the stars that shone brilliantly in the night sky. A handful of sand thrown across black velvet. There was no wind.

"She told me to let the breeze take me," he repeated. "But I don't think the breeze is coming."

Then he looked the car in the headlight and smiled.

"Are you the breeze?"

'Yes,' said the Anglia, in its own little way. 'I can take you away if you let me.'

So Harry opened the door, admiring the way the sword in his hand shimmered in the moonlight. Unthinkingly, he stroked the soft, white snowy owl on his shoulder and adjusted the hat on his head that whispered comforting thoughts in his ear.

Saying farewell to everything he'd known, he clambered into the car.

"Take me away," he whispered and he knew no more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë  
Chapter Two**

Harry awoke more uncomfortable than he'd ever been in his life. The side of his face had been crammed against the steering wheel, his neck twisted at an incredibly painful angle. When he sat up, he found that one of his legs was tucked under his body and that he'd lost all sensation in it and he had to correct the right angle in his neck with a vicious snap.

Regardless, he felt more awake and alive than he could ever remember feeling. His mind, free of the stupor that had ensnared it in the last few weeks, felt quick and sharp. He fumbled for the door handle and fell out of the car, crashing to the moist, dewy grass below.

He lay on his back for a while, stretching his arms and legs, fully enjoying the sensations of the world around him. High above the forest canopy the sun blistered down, its rays dappling Harry's skin. He smiled to himself; it certainly was going to be a beautiful day.

The screech of a snowy owl reached his ears and he sat up as Hedwig dropped neatly into his lap. The owl, clearly relieved that he was awake, began to peck him furiously, chiding him for his stupidity.

"I'm sorry Hedwig, I didn't mean to worry you," he said, trying to appear remorseful even as he laughed. When the bird stopped mothering him, he looked around at the beautiful woodland around him, a thoughtful expression on his face. "I've never seen the Forbidden Forest look so— well— unforbbiden."

"That's because you're not in the Forbidden Forest," came a voice from behind him that made him sit bolt upright in alarm.

He rose, flustering Hedwig once more, and turned to look into the car. The flying Anglia had clearly seen better days; the headlights flickered weakly and one axle had been completely ripped off the bottom. All of the glass had shattered all over the forest floor and steam billowed out from under the bonnet.

Resting on the passenger seat and looking more dishevelled than he'd ever seen it, was the Hogwarts sorting hat. If ever a hat could wear a disapproving expression, it was this one. For a moment, the pair of them just stared at each other, the hat gazing sternly at him and Harry gaping back.

"Did I steal you?" asked Harry.

"Did you—?" began the Hat, but appeared too flabbergasted to finish what he'd started.

"I'm sorry," said Harry. "I wasn't quite in my right mind."

The hat looked quite taken aback for a second.

"Well of course you weren't boy!" it barked, sounding more than a little astounded. "I can see your mind, remember? The moment you plonked me on your noggin I could see how fractured your mind had become!"

"Oh," said Harry, who'd not even considered the possibility. "Still though, I'm sorry to have kidnapped you and brought you here— Where ever here is."

"Well there I can help you," said the hat, shifting slightly, as though sitting back. "You are in Valbonë Valley."

He left this proclamation to sit for a minute and the pair of them continued to stare at each other. The hat clearly expecting some reaction from Harry and for his part, Harry expecting some further elaboration.

It was the hat that broke first.

"Merlin's beard boy, don't you know anything?" it asked, sounding incredibly frustrated. "Have they stopped teaching History of Magic or are you just dim?"

Harry scowled at the hat, an expression which it matched with relative glee.

"I'm not dim," he protested. "I get good marks normally, but have you ever sat through one of Binns' lessons? They could bore you to death and you're—"

Harry was about to say 'an inanimate object' but realised at the last minute that, of course, he wasn't. His scowl relaxed into a look of curiosity as a question occurred to him.

"What do I call you anyway?"

The hat seemed astonished with the abrupt change in tone and topic of the conversation and was silent for several minutes.

"Well," he said delicately, as though not quite sure what to say. "I've never really had a name, but Helga used to call me Sternley."

"Whatever for?" asked Harry in confusion.

"Well," said Sternley, the ridges of his peak folding downward. "When I was younger I was a bit more outspoken and uncouth. One day I told Helga that she was— Anyway, she went running to Godric who said 'If you want him to stop talking, say be quiet sternly.' and she didn't quite get the gist. After a while I just sort of got used to it."

Harry couldn't help but laugh, even though he tried to stifle it for the sake of Sternley's feelings. If indeed he had feelings. Harry couldn't be certain of how these things worked and wasn't quite ready to ask him.

"Well, pleased to meet you Sternley," said Harry. "I'm sorry I kidnapped you, but could you explain exactly where Valbonë Valley is?"

"Albania," said Sternley, in a very matter of fact sort of voice.

Harry's stomach gave a painful lurch. Albania was hundreds, if not thousands of miles from England. Geography had never really been his strong suit. Either way, he was a very long way from home and in country where he had no understanding of the language, customs or culture. Sternley, for his part, seemed to understand Harry's concern.

"You were asleep for a very long time," he explained, in a kinder voice. "Unfortunately, the distance you travelled is probably the least of your worries at the present moment."

Harry nodded his agreement. If he remembered correctly, Dumbledore had mentioned that Voldemort was lurking in the forests of Albania and — at this point he looked around him — if he wasn't very much mistaken, he too was in a forest in Albania.

He swallowed a nervous gulp, and then something occurred to him that made his face light up in relief. He knew how he could easily get out of this mess.

"The day I left Hogwarts was the first day of summer!" he exclaimed. "All I've got to do is cast a spell and the Ministry, — or the Albanian Ministry, I suppose — will detect it and come and get me!"

"Hold on a minute," said Sternley as Harry began to extricate his wand from his pocket. "You really don't want to do that."

Harry stopped, his wand and lips frozen halfway through the incantation for the levitation charm.

"Why not?"

"This is the Valbonë Valley. You just— You just can't."

Harry scoffed, this seemed weak reasoning even for an enchanted hat. His plan would work, he just knew it. He lifted his wand and opened his mouth to try again.

"Wait, wait, wait, wait," said Sternley, hurriedly, Harry lowered his wand again. The hat sighed and made a noise of frustration. "It's difficult to explain. That you don't understand it— it's crazy, really that you don't— everyone in our world does—"

"Well I don't," snapped Harry, feeling slightly offended and embarrassed. "So do your best."

Sternley paused, clearly considering the best way to explain it. After a moment he'd apparently decided upon the words to use, because he began to speak incredibly quickly, almost exactly as Hermione did when she answered a professor's question.

"This valley is one of the most incredibly magical places in Europe, if not the world. The Albanians call it Valbonë, but the Greek Wizards who settled here over two and a half thousand years ago called it Prοsmoros— It means 'doomed to woe'."

Harry swallowed. He didn't imagine that Greek Wizards were much different to English wizards and if there was anything he'd learned about wizards in the last two years it was that they were rarely subtle or humorous when they named places.

Sternley inclined his peak into an unmistakable nod.

"This forest is home to any magical creature you can dare imagine: vampires, werewolves, dragons, chimaeras, acromantulas, griffins and a whole host of others you've never even heard of. Not to mention an enormous and extremely militant population of centaurs and goblins who'd just as soon wear your guts for garters as say 'How'd you do?'."

Harry frowned once more. Though this place didn't sound particularly friendly, he couldn't see the fault with his original plan at all.

"But surely I ought to summon help as quickly as possible then. Surely the Albanian Ministry or Dumbledore can deal with a few disgruntled goblins?"

"You're not listening to me," said Sternley, sounding weary now and, Harry thought, more than a little worried himself. "No wizard— Sorry. No wizard in his right mind would ever come here. Two thousand years ago this entire valley was ceded to the Brotherhood of Goblins by the International Confederation of Wizards. This is a strictly wizardless territory. Just by us being here we're breaching at least a hundred accords that are older than I am.

"Trust me when I say that if you summon the Albanian Ministry, they will either tell the goblins you're here in an attempt to keep the peace, or completely ignore you. If you tell Dumbledore, he'll almost certainly come and rescue you immediately, but not only would that provoke a war between the goblins and wizards, but probably between the Albanians and English too.

"And if I know anything about goblins, and I do, they've almost certainly got some way of scrying for spells being performed in their forest and they'd be on you before you could say 'Great ugly goblins'."

"So what happens if they find us?" asked Harry, almost certain he didn't really want to hear the answer.

"You meet your end at the tip of Bodrod the Bearded's pig-sticker," said Sternley and at Harry's painful wince, laughed. "As a priceless magical artefact I'd face a worse fate; being worn on a never-ending stream of filthy Goblin heads for the next thousand or so years. Not to mention that it'd start a war the likes of which hasn't been seen for a thousand years."

"Well, let's not get caught then," said Harry and Sternley made his curious little nodding motion again. "So, what do you suggest we do?"

"I suggest that we fix this heap," said Sternley, twisting around to critically examine the wrecked car. "And get out of here as quickly and stealthily as possible."

"Right," said Harry and rolled up his sleeves before realising he had no idea where to start. "How do I fix this without magic?"

Sternley laughed a deep, throaty, bubbling laugh. Which was impressive as he didn't have a throat.

"I suppose I'll need to teach you a couple of things about magic."


	3. Chapter 3

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë****  
****Chapter Three**

"So you see," said Sternley, very matter-of-factly. "It's all quite simple after all."

Harry, stared at him from his seat on the grass, his mouth gaped open and his eyes glazed over in an uncomprehending stare. Sternley sighed and shook his brim in obvious frustration.

"Come on Harry," he said, the patient tone in his voice cracking slightly. "I know you're not this much of a cretin, I've seen inside your mind remember— Push that laziness aside and try a little harder."

"Sorry," said Harry, contritely. "I am trying; it's just hard to focus when you regurgitate twenty rolls worth of essay into my ear. Can't we do something a little more hands on?"

The hat snorted at the eager expression on Harry's face, but then the creases on his point relaxed slightly.

"So you learn better hands on, 'eh?" he asked thoughtfully. "Right, in that case, we'd better start working on some wards to hide the Anglia! You're going to have to stick me on your head while we take a little walk around."

Harry frowned slightly and pulled a face. As much as he appreciated Sternley's help, the idea of having anyone constantly reading his thoughts rankled slightly with his sensibilities. Sternley, to his credit, seemed to notice and correctly interpret his hesitation.

"Listen," he began. "If there was any easier way to do this, I'd be completely up for it. I don't really want to be exposed to the thoughts of a pubescent boy any more than you do. But you need your hands free to swing that pretty sword if we meet something unpleasant on our little walk."

Harry's expression momentarily became resigned before a sudden flash of inspiration struck him and his face lit up excitedly. He jumped to his feet.

"Hedwig," he called the owl that was fluttering circles in the canopy above. "Hedwig, come here please."

Hedwig fluttered down as she was asked and a moment before Harry put his plan into action, Sternley realised exactly what he planned to do.

"Hold on—" he said, his voice high and worried. "Don't you dare Harry Potter! There is no way—"

"Well," interjected Harry, looking between the hat and the owl perched on his forearm. "It's my head or hers and I noticed the other day that I was starting to grow hair in unu—"

"RIGHT!" cried Sternley, cutting him off. "Right. I'd prefer to eat mice than—"

He broke off again with a shudder and Harry took his temporary distraction to push him over Hedwig's head. The owl, though fairly large for a post owl, was almost entirely enveloped within Sternley.

"Argh!" cried the hat. "Owl's brains are— Well— Let's just say you don't want to know what your darling Hedwig gets up to when you're not around."

"Bark," said Hedwig, reprovingly.

"I don't think this going to work," said Harry thoughtfully, looking at the pair of feet sticking out from underneath Sternley. However, as he said it and to his astonishment the Sorting Hat began to shrink and within a couple of seconds, fit perfectly on the snowy owl's head.

"Did you do that?" asked Harry in amazement.

"One of my innate properties," replied Sternley. "Gryffindor thought it would be better if I didn't suffocate the smaller students."

"When you sorted me you fell over my face," Harry pointed out obstinately.

"Well, Gryffindor didn't realise how funny it could be to tease first years," admitted Sternley. "Nor how intimidating it might be for small children to get up on a stage in front of hundreds of people to have their inner qualities exposed. Forgive me for thinking it would be less awkward if you weren't looking back into hundreds of staring eyes. I mean really. Kids these days."

By the end of his spiel, Sternley's voice was dipping with sarcasm and Harry, fully chided, stared intently at the floor.

"Sorry," he said mournfully and then risked a glance up at the hat, which was plainly grinning from ear to ear. "You little—"

"Oi," said Sternley quickly. "Your owl thinks you're too young to be using bad language."

This made Harry pause to think. When he'd put the hat on Hedwig's head, he'd never quite considered the possibility that Sternley could act as an interpreter between him and his owl.

"So she does understand what I'm saying?" asked Harry eagerly and Hedwig hooted in a clearly scornful manner.

"She understands you perfectly," said Sternley, with a chuckle. "She thinks you're ignorant for not learning her language as well as she has learned yours."

This too blindsided Harry. He'd always thought that Hedwig was exceptionally bright for an owl and that she'd always seemed to understand his requests. Now he felt very embarrassed to have never bothered to try and comprehend her a little better.

In a moment of decisiveness he fixed Hedwig in his gaze and lifted his chin proudly.

"Hoot?" he tried. "Hoot, hoot, hoot."

A moment of silence stretched between the two and then Hedwig closed her eyes in disgust.

"Yeah," said Sternley, clearly searching for diplomatic words. "Hedwig wants me to make it plain that on no account should you ever try to hoot like an owl again."

"What did I say?" asked Harry, horrified.

"You really don't want to know," said Sternley, shuddering gently on Hedwig's head. Then he seemed to push the thoughts aside and his tone became focused again. "We'd better get a move on, we've only a couple of hours 'till noon."

"Right," said Harry, his sunny disposition returning in full force. "So where do we begin?"

"We go in that direction," said Sternley, pointing with the very tip of his peak. "There's a couple of things you'll want to keep your eyes out for if we're going to make these wards. A birch tree— there'll be plenty of those in this neck of the woods. A bay laurel— That'll help consecrate some of the tools we'll have to make. A scotch broom— You'll know that by it's bright yellow and orange flowers."

The trio wandered to and fro in the beautiful sunlit woodland. Together they spent a couple of hours exploring the area around the downed Anglia and picking up objects seemingly — to Harry at least — at random.

They began with a couple of largish stones that Sternley proclaimed as excellent but didn't elaborate any further on. This was followed by a large branch from a rowan tree which he had to hack down with the sword of Gryffindor. Next they stumbled upon the scotch broom, which Harry thought was beautiful and was slightly dismayed to have to partially deflower.

Then he found a small cluster of birch trees close by a bay laurel. This too Sternley said was excellent, as they would boost the effectiveness of protective enchantments in the vicinity. At the hat's behest, Harry availed himself of as much birch wood as he could carry.

After this stroke of good luck, a good thirty minutes passed in which Harry bashed his head innumerable times on low hanging branches and fell into brambles on two occasions. However, it was one such stroke of misfortune — walking straight into a hidden divot — that sent him flying into a patch of weasel's snout.

This, Sternley later proclaimed, was a moment of pure genius, though the teenager assumed the hat was not complimenting his foraging ability.

During this process, Hedwig proved completely invaluable. Her ability to take Sternley high into the air allowed them not only to better locate the items they desired, but also to navigate their way back to the Anglia.

All the while Harry couldn't help but stare in wonder at his surroundings. He'd never had much experience with the woods when with the Dursley's — this was probably a good thing, thought Harry, as they'd have probably abandoned him — and all his experience with the Forbidden Forest had been disturbing.

By contrast, everything around him now was incredible. From the red squirrels scampering up and down the trees to the varied, almost intoxicating, assault of colour from every direction. He found himself questioning Sternley's assessment of where they were.

Just as the sun hit its zenith, sunlight brightly illuminating the forest floor, did they come across the last item that Sternley had declared essential. However it was only as he carried a large armfull of Buckwheat back toward the car that Harry discovered he was allergic to the plant and began to uncontrollably sneeze.

Harry dumped the Buckwheat on top of the extremely odd collection of items that sat on the grass next to the Anglia and collapsed beside it, feeling utterly exhausted by the trials and tribulations. Sternley, however, appeared to have other ideas and chided him.

"You can rest when you're dead," said the hat. "And if you're not quick, that'll be much sooner rather than later!"

Wearily and begrudgingly Harry complied, rising to his knees and resting on the balls of his feet.

"What do I need to do then?" he asked.

"Take four lengths of birch," said Sternley. "And use the sword to strip away the bark. Be careful though, you don't want to lose a hand or cut too deeply into the wood. You'll compromise the integrity of the magic if you do."

It took Harry a little while to get accustomed to using the large blade for such a delicate task and it was far too much like potions preparations for his liking. However the incredible keenness of the blade made for quick, if slightly clumsy work.

Soon enough, he had four similarly sized, straight lengths of naked birch on the ground in front of him. Sternley critiqued his work, though Harry wasn't sure if the hat itself had eyes, could innately sense its surroundings or was utilizing Hedwig's sight.

"Grab those two rocks," ordered Sternley, when he was satisfied. "And grind the weasel's snout, scotch bloom blossoms and bay leaves into a poultice."

This proved far harder work than Harry had expected but Sternley managed to break up the process with some genuinely interesting description of the elements involved in the magic they were working.

"Obviously, you can't use wand magic just now," he was saying. "And most wizards never bother learning any other way to utilize their talents. A few become potioneers of course, but brewing a pepper-up potion is generally the limit of most people's arcane arts.

"Anyway, what we're doing here is exercising a bit of Herbology — it's not all carnivorous blossoms and lethal screaming bulbs - with some ritual magic that went out of fashion about the turn of the last century.

"Make sure you get a good bunch of those orange petals in there, along with the yellow. Not only will it look fantastic, but it'll help strengthen the unity of the sacred space that scotch bloom defines.

"I'll concede that this is hardly as precise, practical or efficient as wand-based magic. But it's definitely handy if you've got the time or reason to go through the stages of preparation. In this case, you have both.

"Oh, watch you get an even balance of weasel's snout to bay leaves— The laurel will consecrate your sticks, removing any previous traces of magic that might cling to it and in this forest, it's almost certain there'll be something. But if you've got too high a concentration of bay laurel, it'll consecrate away the magic in the weasel's snout. Two points to Gryffindor if you can tell me why and another five if you can tell me the main purpose of weasel's snout."

Harry considered this as he added another handful of the weasel to the ugly, dripping mess that was smeared across the bottom stone.

"Well, weasel's snout is part of the snapdragon family," said Harry, vaguely remembering a lecture Sprout had given on it. "And snapdragons bestow protection, but weasel's snout is a smaller snapdragon— Snape says smaller sub varieties of protective flora tend to confer concealment properties, rather than physical or magical barriers."

Harry glanced up at Sternley who seemed rather pleased. He had absolutely no idea why bay laurel would consecrate weasel's snout but not the scotch broom petals. However, so far making educated guesses had seemed to lead him along the right route.

"I remember one of our first Herbology classes covered the major segregations of magical flora— those that infer physical properties, those that infer magical properties and those that infer symbolic properties." He paused grinding again, trying to think through the question. "Could it be that weasel's snout is inherently magical, while scotch broom confers a symbolic property to the poultice. Magic can be consecrated from an object, but symbolism cannot?"

"Are you asking me or telling me?" demanded Sternley.

"Telling you," said Harry, smiling as he continued to crush the plants into oblivion.

"See," said Sternley. "You do listen in classes, it just requires a bit of hands on work to get your mind rolling over. You can stop grinding now, that's perfect. Lay the birch limbs together and smear them liberally with the paste. Excellent, now you'll need to burn a small circle into all four, they need to be in roughly similar places on each."

"And how exactly am I—?" began Harry, but paused as an idea came to him suddenly.

Reenergized by his brainwave, Harry leapt to his feet, reached into the car and pushed the cigarette lighter into its slot. It began to tick and heat up and he turned back to the hat who smiled at him, the beaten corners of his brim turning up at the edges.

"See, now you're thinking," he said proudly. "Half a day without a wand and you're starting to get some common sense back. Even I hadn't considered that."

A few minutes and a couple of re-heatings later, Harry had four perfectly serviceable birch staves. Sternley expertly directed him from the air, having him place them in a square around the Anglia, each stave representing a corner and the circles burned into their surface pointing outward.

"Now what?" asked Harry looking proudly around at his handiwork.

"Put your hand against one of them, this will be known as the master peg," supplied the hat. "Now, you remember that feeling you felt when you first took your wand in Ollivander's?"

Harry nodded in the affirmative. He had very few memories as happy as the one that confirmed he was a wizard. That he could get away from the Dursleys, that he wouldn't have to go Stonewall Comprehensive.

"Try and replicate that feeling," said Sternley. "Remember everything about it, every little detail and every little spark that flew from the tip of your wand. Visualize it perfectly."

Harry, who hadn't expected it to be quite so easy, found the memories flowing to the forefront of his mind and in a sudden rush of warmth felt a tremor pass through him. In that moment he knew that his simple defensive ward, made out of nothing but a handful of materials he'd gathered from the local area, was working exactly as it should. With a wide grin on his face, he realised he'd just added a new happy memory to add to his collection.

"Absolutely fantastic!" declared Sternley proudly.

Never before had Harry felt so simultaneously exhausted and elated.


	4. Chapter 4

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë****  
Chapter Four**

Sternley gave Harry a couple of hours rest during the early hours of the afternoon as the sun beat down above. The canopy above suffused the world with an ethereal greenish glow and the few rays of sunlight that found their way between the leaves dappled the ground below.

The forest around them was nothing less than a paradise. A paradise of muted songbirds, throbbing insects and the far away calls of some larger bird. Nearby Harry could hear the drone of some bees as they bumbled to and fro, pollinating the richly perfumed flowers that seemed to burst from every corner of the forest.

"Sternley?" Harry murmured, spread eagle in his spot on the ground, enjoying the slight breeze that kissed his skin.

"Mmmm?" replied Sternley half-heartedly from the top of the Anglia, where he appeared to be sunning himself. Hedwig had flown off earlier in the day and from the expression on her face Harry thought it better to leave her to her own devices for a while.

"I thought you said this forest was dangerous?"

"It is," said the hat, even more lazily. "Terribly dangerous."

"It doesn't exactly seem so," said Harry, lifting his hand to block the sunlight from his eyes. "I mean, we've been stomping around all day and nothing terrible has happened."

Sternley twisted to get a better look at Harry and the hat frowned deeply.

"How often have you ever seen a dangerous creature in the sunlight?" he asked, scornfully. "Where did exactly did the basilisk live again? In a desert? On a scorching beach? In the middle of a nice, sunny field?"

"Okay, okay," said Harry hurriedly. "I get your point, evil things like the dark and the cold. But then surely this forest isn't the perfect habitat for them?"

"Of course it isn't," said Sternley. "But you've got to realise that this is their only choice. It's not as though it's a choice of Valbonë or The Dark Forest of Doom, it's this or wizards culling them left, right and centre.

"I mean, do you think any magical government worth their salt are going to let things like trolls, giants and acromantulas go pottering around if they can help it? Most will generally cull creatures like dragons, griffins and graphorns which go out of their way to avoid people."

"But that's terrible," said Harry, feeling slightly sick.

"That's life," said Sternley, sounding more serious than Harry had ever heard him. "As nothing more than a magical construct and a few pieces of battered cloth, I know a lot about the value of life. I'm not one for needless killing, but in some cases it's preferable to the alternative."

"The alternative?" asked Harry, sitting up and scowling. "What could be worse than indiscriminate killing? Than pushing species to extinction?"

"You can't understand it," said the hat, twisting away. "You're young. Of the wrong generation."

"So explain it," growled Harry, his fists curling into tightly clenched fists.

He was a little surprised by his flushed cheeks and straining jaw, but few things rankled with him as much as being looked down upon for being young. He'd known worse things in twelve years than most knew in their entire life.

Sternley sighed lightly and shook himself.

"You've got to understand that the wizarding world wasn't always like this," he said eventually. "Only in the last two hundred years or so has it become even slightly civilized."

Harry scoffed at this, his mind full of thoughts of Dobby, the basilisk, Voldemort and Lucius Malfoy.

"Exactly," said the Hat. "If that's what it's like now, can you imagine how it was two hundred years ago before the seventy-first statute that banned duelling? Four hundred, before the Ministry of Magic? A thousand, before the Wizard Council and the first Charter of Rights?

"Go back further, two thousand years ago when the majority of wizards in Northern Europe were a collection of bearded sooth-sayers who lived in mud-huts, ate hallucinogens and shagged goats in order to further their understanding of the universe.

"Whatever you might think, or have been taught, people were not always the dominant species on this planet. Vampires, dementors, giants, trolls and goblins ruled the world— humans were nothing more than cattle to them. And do you think one of them ever stopped to think that what they were doing was wrong?"

Sternley paused and sagged slightly, looking slightly listless. Harry had never seen anything or anyone look quite so dejected and weary before.

"So wizards organised themselves. It's why the Roman Empire expanded so rapidly. Behind the rapid advance of their legionnaires was the other, hidden war. Those that surrendered and could be assimilated into wizarding culture like the goblins were essentially forced into slavery. Those that couldn't were pushed to the brink of extinction.

"Hardly the wizarding world's greatest hour, but can you really blame them? Anyway, that's why they're here. This is where they were pushed back to and this is where the fighting just sort of stopped. I think everyone was sick of it by then."

Sternley lapsed into a tired silence and Harry could tell that it wasn't the whole story, or at least the hat had much more story to tell. But he also knew that now probably wasn't the best time to bring it up, so he silently sat and digested the information.

Soon however it became plainly obvious with the grumbling of his stomach that he couldn't sustain himself with information alone and so he rose to his feet.

"Hungry are you?" asked Sternley, clearly relieved to have something else to dwell on. Harry nodded. "We'd best go find something to eat then."

With Hedwig nowhere in sight, Harry plonked Sternley on his head and collected the equipment he might need during his expedition. His sword he slung through his belt, ensuring it was positioned so the blade wouldn't cut through the flimsy leather. His wand he tied to his forearm with a length of cloth he ripped from his shirt.

To these essentials he added a red petrol tin from the boot of the Anglia. This, he estimated, would suffice if he found some water. He also took a blanket off the backseat, which he could convert into a makeshift bindle if necessary.

With these few tools, Harry left the makeshift wards that surrounded the car and ventured out into the woods.

Though he wouldn't admit it, Sternley's words had spooked Harry earlier and so it was with careful and deliberate footsteps that Harry navigated the forest.

"You're going to need a reliable water source," said Sternley. "Not to mention that's where you're most likely going to catch game."

Harry balked at the idea of hunting anything and he heard Sternley chuckle above him.

"Soon enough you'll be hungry enough to get over that," said the hat, knowledgeably. "But until then, I've got a fantastic recipe for a simple nettle soup."

"Oh yeah?" asked Harry, relieved to have something else to think about. "What is it?"

"It's pretty simple really," began Sternley and Harry thought he might hear the slightest hint of humour in his voice. "You stick nettles in a pan full of water and boil them until they stop stinging the inside of your mouth."

Harry gave a little sarcastic laugh.

"Anyway," said Sternley. "You want to be looking for tracks. Converging tracks going downhill generally means there's water nearby. Those bees around the car are a good sign; they won't fly more than a few miles, which means there's at least some water nearby."

In the end it took about twenty minutes for Harry to find some tracks and longer still to follow them for quite some distance through the forest. Harry learned pretty quickly during his walk that although it was called Valbonë Valley, the forest actually covered a much greater area than the valley itself.

They heard the stream gurgling merrily along before they saw it. When they finally emerged from the thickets of trees that lined its banks, Harry stopped dead, staring in amazement at the scene unfolding before him.

Splashing around in the water were a dozen creatures that Harry had never seen before. They were definitely of humanoid shape, but were perhaps two feet tall and glowed a pale shade of blue that reflected and refracted in the water as they leapt and laughed through it.

"Sylphs, I think," whispered Sternley. "They shouldn't be hostile, but they're proud and pretty violent if provoked. Be respectful, avoid eye contact and give them a gift in return for their water."

"A gift?" hissed Harry out of the side of his mouth. "All I've got is you and this stupid sword. What on earth do I give them?"

"How should I know?" asked Sternley. "Something shiny. Everything loves shiny things."

Harry frowned and shoved his hands in his pockets; he came up with a dungbomb, a handful of loose Bott's Every Flavour Beans, two silver sickles and a knut. He carefully polished one of the sickles on the edge of his shirt and stepped forward toward the river.

Almost immediately all of the sylphs stopped their cavorting and turned to face him, something like curiosity shining in their eyes. Harry found himself fighting very hard to keep a blush from surfacing on his cheeks— the sylphs didn't appear to have a scrap of clothing between them.

Very, very carefully he bowed, low and deep, then placed the sickle at the riverbank and retreated a safe distance upstream. There he crouched to fill the empty tin with water and out of the corner of his eye, watched as one of the sylphs approached the coin, picked it up and began chattering to the others.

Whatever language they spoke, it certainly wasn't English and Harry doubted that any person could make the extremely quick bursts of hisses and yelps they used, so it probably wasn't even human. Either way he had no idea whether his gift had been a good one or not but continued to meekly fill his tin.

When it was full he rose slowly, presented the strange little creatures with a slight incline of his head and then slowly moved back toward the thicket, never taking his eyes off them. Once he'd disappeared from view, he heard the creatures go back to their game, splashing around in the water and chattering excitedly.

"Excellent," declared Sternley. "Couldn't have done better myself."

"You don't have legs," Harry pointed out.

"It's a figure of speech," replied Sternley. "Thanks for making light of my disability."

"You're a hat," said Harry. "You're not supposed to have legs. It's hardly a disability if you weren't ever supposed to have them."

Sternley merely grumbled.

On the way back to camp they stopped to pick some nettles. They seemed to grow in thick clumps all over the forest and according to Sternley they were chock full of vitamins and essential nutrients. Harry couldn't remember having eaten nettle soup before, but Sternley assured him it was delicious.

Harry wasn't one to quibble, but he felt he had to make the point that as a hat, he didn't exactly have functioning taste buds. After this quip, the Sorting Hat didn't talk for at least ten minutes.

It didn't take Harry very long to find the quickest way of harvesting a patch of nettles.

After drawing his sleeves over his hands, he gripped the sword of Gryffindor with both hands and swung it at the patch of nettles. The plant weren't even a slight match for the goblin wrought blade and in no time at all Harry was tossing them into his blanket which he'd laid out on the grass.

For some reason a rhyme that he'd once heard in primary school came back to him then and he recited it to himself in a loud, sing-song voice as he worked.

"Tender-handed, stroke a nettle,  
And it stings you for your pains.  
Grasp it like a man of mettle,  
And it soft as silk remains."

When he reached the end of the rhyme, he stopped and started all over again. It wasn't until he heard a noise behind him that he realised his folly.

He spun, the sword clenched in both hands and came face to face with the largest cat he'd ever seen.

Harry gulped as the creature's golden eyes gazed unblinkingly at him. Although it didn't look aggressive, merely curious if anything, it was still four feet long and comprised of sleek, powerful muscles, sharp teeth and razor claws.

After the initial shock had worn off, Harry began to take in other details. It was a pale golden colour, with dark spots that were spattered along the length of its entire body. It had small tufts of hair that protruded from both ears and larger ones down each side of its face that seemed to resemble a beard.

"That's a lynx," whispered Sternley, sounding more worried than he had about the sylphs. "I don't think they attack people, but I don't think they're normally up during the day either."

"What does that mean?" hissed Harry out of the side of his mouth.

"Well either it means it's starving," said Sternley. "Or you've woken him up with your idiotic singing."

Neither of these two situations seemed advantageous to Harry who was beginning to feel distinctly nervous as the lynx continued to stare at him. The cat's amber eyes seemed to glow as the light caught them and Harry couldn't help himself from gazing into them, despite his better judgement.

For the longest five minutes of Harry's life, the pair of them stood perfectly still, gazing at one another. Then the lynx, apparently tired of this game, silently turned and padded away into the forest.

Harry let out a sigh of relief and wiped nervous sweat from his brow.

"Merlin's beard," said Sternley and Harry could only nod in agreement.

Then, without a single word being spoken between them, he gathered the blanket together, knotted the four corners and strode back to the car, setting a blinding pace.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Harry sat on the ground carefully dicing the nettles he'd collected. Despite pulling the sleeves of his robes far over his hands, he'd still managed to sting himself more times than he could count. However as he knew from ten years with Dursley's, the promise of a full stomach was a powerful motivator and he diligently shredded the leaves as Sternley had insisted.

Beside him sat a merrily burning fire that made him smile slightly every time he looked at it. Sternley had taught him how to stack a fire that burned almost smokelessly. Although he assured Harry that the simple wards they'd erected earlier in the day ought to completely conceal his presence they both agreed it was simply better to not leave things to chance.

Harry wasn't entirely sure what time it was— neither his watch nor the Anglia's dashboard seemed to be working. But the sun was well on its descent toward the horizon, casting long shadows across the ground. And although it still hung in the sky, the cold chill of night had set in and he was grateful for the warmth of the fire.

"So what do you think Sternley?" asked Harry as he finished the last of the nettles. "Cut the top off this fuel tin and stick it on the fire?"

Sternley snorted from his perch on the boot, not looking up from the car's instruction manual they'd found tucked under a seat.

"Are you a wizard or not?" he asked gruffly. "Don't tell me you can't do simple transfiguration."

Harry frowned.

"I thought you said that I shouldn't do wand magic?" he asked, stoking the fire with his sword.

Sternley turned a condescending look upon him, then flipped to the next page with his mouth, ruining the effect slightly.

"Well what do you think we made those wards for? Rough as they are they'll conceal you while you're between them."

"Oh," said Harry, comprehension dawning on him.

With this simplification of matters, he rose to his feet and pulled one of the hubcaps off the car. Then he removed his wand from the makeshift sling on his forearm where he'd had it all day and took careful aim.

"Scourgify," he said and suddenly the hubcap gleamed in the firelight.

After all he wasn't going to cook on a dirty hubcap.

Finally, concentrating deeply he swished his wand to shape the hubcap into something more appropriate for cooking in. Harry had to admit it wasn't the greatest piece of transfiguration ever, but it'd certainly serve the purpose.

He spent a little more time than necessary mixing the nettles and water in his crudely shaped pot, using copious levitation and stirring charms in the process. He probably could have done it quickly by hand, but the glorious thrill of using his magic properly overwhelmed him slightly.

Just then, something dawned on him and he turned to Sternley, a puzzled expression on his face.

"Sternley, you know I can use magic here?" he asked.

"Mhmm," replied Sternley, apparently engrossed in the manual.

"Have I been able to all day?"

"Since you finished the wards, certainly."

"So why did you just let me cut all those nettles by hand?" asked Harry, annoyance plainly written in his tone.

Sternley craned to look at him and then made the hat equivalent of a shrug.

"I don't eat food. Humans are funny about that sort of thing, I thought you might prefer—"

"Prefer stinging myself stupid?" asked Harry, turning his wand on the hat, a curious expression on his face. "I wonder how flammable you are."

"Now, now," said Sternley, looking slightly worried and wriggling away as quickly as he could. "There's no need for that. It was only a bit of fun. And let's face it, if you burn me who's going to get you out of here?"

"Oh I wasn't thinking of completely incinerating you," said Harry, his eyes gleaming. "Just singeing you around the edges slightly."

"Now Harry, there's no need—" began the hat, in a placating sort of voice but as Harry shot a jet of fire past him, broke away into an exceptionally girly shriek.

Harry froze for a second, eyes wide in astonishment, then dissolved into side-splitting laughter that left him doubled up and gasping for breath.

"Wha— What was that?" he gasped between guffaws. "That was pathetic!"

"YOU TRIED TO BURN ME!" shrieked Sternley, making Harry laugh even harder.

They stayed that way for several minutes; Harry gripping his sides and gasping for breath between fits of laughter and Sternley looking as affronted as a hat possibly can.

Later in the evening, after Harry had managed to sooth Sternley's hurt feelings, he took the nettle soup off the fire and transfigured a spare piece of birch into a serviceable spoon. Despite his misgivings, the soup wasn't half bad, if not a little bland. There was certainly no hint of the sharp needles or toxins that had stung his flesh before.

He left enough to eat a meal later in the evening on the off chance that he got hungry again and stripped off his shoes and socks. His feet, unused to long walks over difficult terrain had swollen and the beginnings of blisters had begun to set in. Even Harry, who had very little experience of the outdoors knew that if he left them for any period of time they'd become unmanageable.

"Hey Sternley," he said, disturbing the hat from his reading again. "Any good spells for blisters?"

"Try 'Episkey'," he said, as though he weren't really paying attention.

"I don't know that one," admitted Harry and the hat looked over.

"What do they even teach you in school these days?" he asked, sourly. "Back in my day—"

"You're a hat Sternley," Harry reminded him.

"Right," said Sternley. "So I am. Right, take your wand and draw a sort of lower-case 'e' in the air, over your blisters and say 'Episkey'."

Harry frowned in concentration, lifted his wand and did as commanded.

"Episkey," he said firmly and was rewarded by the sight of the swelling of his feet reduce slightly.

While by no means perfect, it was certainly better. Sternley gave a satisfied 'hrmph' and looked back to the manual. Whether he was genuinely interested in the functions of the car or whether he had nothing better to do, Harry wasn't sure.

"I'm going to get some more firewood for the night," said Harry, pulling his shoes and socks back on. "You wanna come?"

"Nope," said Sternley absent-mindedly. "Bring me back something nice."

"I'll find you a lovely moth or something," replied Harry and carefully tucked his wand inside the glove-box. "Or a caterpillar."

"Fantastic," said Sternley. "You go do that."

Harry marched out into the forest, keeping an eye on the sun that was slowly sinking toward the horizon. He and Sternley had agreed that it would better to gather wood from a number of dispersed locations, with the aim of leaving as little evidence of their presence as possible. For this reason he headed out a little further than he had before and picked a likely looking ash tree.

Each blow of the sword against the tree was reassuring. For some reason the steady rhythmic 'thunk' of the blade against a limb reminded him of tea at Hagrid's. The rich smells of the forest had changed with the encroaching night, the succulent perfumes of the flowers had given way to the deeply aromatic smells of each and sap.

He collected four largish branches before he decided to turn back, dragging them along the ground behind him. He felt they'd certainly be enough to keep such a small fire burning all night, especially considering Sternley seemed to have an expert eye for the stacking of new branches.

In the time he'd been working, the last of the light had begun to wane as the sun dissapeared over the horizon. Deep purples had begun to swell up in the western sky, adding to the completely surreal environment of the beautiful forest.

Indeed he was so distracted by the sky that it took him a minute to realise he wasn't exactly sure where he was, or where he was going. He turned rapidly on the spot, a sudden shrill of fear racing through him. He'd been absolutely sure he'd been going the right direction, but the dying light on the trees and the lengthened shadows had completely disorientated him.

He heard movement behind him and spun, half hoping to see the Anglia behind him with Sternley giving him a condescending look, but all he could see was a vague dark shape moving amongst the trees.

A shape that stared at him with gleaming eyes.

The lynx, for that was what Harry realised it was, gazed at him with something approaching curiosity, but made no attempt to approach. The two of them stood staring at each other for quite some time.

After a while, something unexpected began to happen. Harry found that the more he looked, the less terrified he was and the less terrified he was, the more beautiful the exotic creature before him became.

After about fifteen minutes, Harry managed to crack a smile.

"Hello lynx," he said, unsure if this was a magical animal that could understand him or not. "My name is Harry."

"Mrow," said the lynx, only barely audible.

"I'm going to go back to my car now," said Harry. "You're not going to try and eat me when I turn around are you?"

"Mrow," replied the lynx, reassuringly.

Harry nodded his thanks and looked around in an attempt to get his bearings. Luckily he was saved from having to try and navigate his way back to the car by the timely arrival of Hedwig, who shepherded him safely back toward the car.

"Good night lynx," called Harry over his shoulder as he left.

And he could have sworn that in the distance behind him, he heard the tiniest, faintest "Mrow" in response.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **I apologise to those of you who think that things aren't progressing fast enough. They work at their own pace. On the topic of working at their own pace— I assume these updates will probably slow down at some point. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, I never really say so, but it really makes a huge impact on any author when they know people have enjoyed their stuff. Also, when you're done reading this, please check out /~TomYoung — he's got a great début story called Nineteen Years. Also a big thanks to /~Klaelman and ViolentRed for their help.

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë  
Chapter Six**

"It's been two days, Harry," said Sternley, from where he was perched on Hedwig's head. "At some point you're going to have to get over the idea."

"I might just become vegetarian," protested Harry, looking down at the length of wire in his hand that the Sorting Hat had taught him to twist into a snare. "Rabbits and squirrels can't be particularly tasty."

"It's the protein that's important," insisted Sternley, shaking his head in disbelief. "You've got to maintain a healthy balance of nutrients. There's no point getting you all the way back to civilisation in one piece if you've completely wasted away."

As much as Harry thought Sternley was probably talking a lot of sense, he couldn't help but stare in disgust at the object in his hand. It was barbarous and he couldn't bear the thought of anything innocent, rabbit or otherwise, having to suffer such torment at his hand.

"Isn't there any other way of doing it?" he asked, determined to exhaust every other possibility before he accepted it.

Sternley gave a soft sigh.

"I'm not one to advocate the needless killing of anything," he said patiently. "But sometimes it's necessary and this is the best way to do it. What right do you have to eat of a creature that you can't face up to killing yourself?"

Harry considered this and then nodded. Sternley was right of course, it did make sense, but he still couldn't quite accept that he'd have to do it. Perhaps it would be easier if he were hungrier, but as it was, Sternley had proved a dab hand at picking out plants that were not only edible, but tasty and Harry was too used to going without food at the Dursley's to be too worried about the occasional hungry pang.

"Sternley, I was wondering," began Harry in a desperate attempt to change the subject. "How do you know all these things you do?"

Sternley made a curious gesture that Harry had begun to understand was his attempt at a shrug.

"Well I was created by the founders, Gryffindor in particular and designed to ensure there was a reliable source of input from them in the running of the school. They weren't exactly going to fill my head with bits of fluff were they?"

"I suppose not," replied Harry, frowning and untying the thin wire noose in his hands.

"Not to mention that over the years, I've been used as a repository of sorts; used to record the cutting-edge and the antiquated unfashionable ideas that might have otherwise been lost. I guess people figured that as I've been around for almost a millennia, I was a pretty safe bet."

"I guess they didn't foresee me coming along then," said Harry, ostensibly as a joke, but feeling slightly sheepish.

"Or they did," replied Sternley, with another of his curious shrugs. "Knowledge is only useful if you use it. I'd like to think that most headmasters would have preferred you to have me in this situation than be out here on your own."

"But if I never get you back, there's all that magic that's lost. All those ideas," argued Harry, gaping slightly.

"Magic goes out of fashion for a reason. Either it's made illegal, or it's impractical or superseded by something more modern."

"But that ritual magic that you showed me earlier was really useful," protested Harry.

"And if you'd been able to use a wand, you could have done it with a single charm. Ninety-nine times in a hundred it's more practical and expedient to use your wand."

"So will I be using my wand to fix the car?"

"Unless you want to be here for the next twenty years while we try and find some sort of ritualistic magic version of enchanting and probably invent an entire other branch of magical practice. Although that might require more Arithmancy than I know."

Harry nodded and re-tied the snare that was still clasped tightly in his grasp. He'd done it so many times that he'd gotten it down almost perfectly. His fingers, slowly becoming more dexterous with all the extra work they were doing, had become quick and nimble.

"You've tied and re-tied that a thousand times," observed Sternley. "Have you considered actually setting it?"

Harry's stomach churned, but then he nodded. His sensibilities falling to the weight of Sternley's insistence and good sense. He set off into the undergrowth and Sternley, who was still being borne good naturedly on Hedwig's head, followed him.

"You'll want to look for a good game trail," said Sternley, for the thousandth time that day.

"I know," said Harry, keeping his eyes peeled for the tell-tale signs as he walked in a slow circle around the outside of his wards.

"Make sure you spring it properly."

"I know," insisted Harry, finding what he was looking for and crouching down to examine it.

He brushed lightly at some discarded foliage to reveal a game trail that passed between two tightly planted trees. Here he tied his snare to one of the trunks and then lightly fastened it to the other, to suspend it vertically. He looked to Sternley for his agreement and the hat made a strange little nodding motion.

"You'll want a couple more of those," he said, observing Harry's handiwork with satisfaction. "To be sure of catching something."

Harry nodded wordlessly, still feeling slightly disgusted by what he'd just made and instead busied himself with producing another snare out of the wire in his pocket, searching for the game trails and suitable positions for his snares.

By the time Sternley decided he was finished, he'd placed seven snares in various positions nearby the car and was thoroughly sickened by the process, despite having not caught anything yet. Sternley, in an apparent attempt to cheer Harry up, promised him that if his snares were successful, he'd teach Harry some more advanced trapping techniques.

"There's spring loaded snares, of course," babbled the hat. "And that leads you into all sorts, like the baited spring leg snare, the trapeze spring snare and my personal favourite the double spring snare!"

When Harry couldn't take it anymore, he excused himself to go and collect more water from the river, remembering to take one of his few remaining sickles in order to appease the sylphs if they made a reappearance.

He was joined, as he often was when he was otherwise alone in the forest, by the lynx. Harry wasn't quite sure if it was stalking him, looking out for him or merely keeping an eye on him as he pottered around the big cat's territory, but he never got too close, but likewise never made any ostensibly threatening actions.

When Harry reached the river, there wasn't any sign of the sylphs, so he simply crouched to fill the fuel tin, the running water making a pleasant babbling noise against the rocks around him. Once again he was struck with how idyllic the forest was during the hours of bright sunshine, but having spent two nights within it, he knew that the forest was not without its darkness.

Last night he and Sternley had listened to the wolves baying at the full moon which Harry had thought was poetic, until he really thought about it and felt his stomach tie itself in a neat little knot. There'd been another, darker call in the early hours, which had woken Harry from his dreamless slumber and sent a shiver down his spine.

Even Sternley hadn't been able to identify what the creature had been. Or, and Harry had the sneaking suspicion that this was the case, the hat had decided not to tell him in an attempt to give him some peace of mind.

Harry wasn't sure which one he wanted to believe.

He straightened up and turned to leave, but stopped short as he saw one of the blue-skinned sylphs stood on the river bank, gazing at him in obvious interest. Immediately Harry bent himself into a low bow which, to his surprise, the sylph reciprocated, then resumed staring at him.

"Uh, nice morning isn't it?" asked Harry, glancing up at the sky, completely at a loss to what exactly he ought to do.

"Why you here?" it asked, in an accent that was almost Eastern European but undermined by a quality that Harry couldn't put his finger on.

Harry considered for a moment and wondered how he ought to explain things to a creature with probably no idea of what a car even was.

"I fell from the sky," he said in the end, opting for simplicity over anything else, he accompanied the statement with a hand gesture.

"I see," replied the sylph as though this was perfectly normal behaviour.

It was only as she repeated the hand gesture that Harry realised the statement had been intended literally— the sylph had seen the crash.

"I go now," said the sylph, turning away from him.

Something occurred to Harry as it strode away and he took a step after it.

"Wait," he said quickly and the sylph turned a wary eye on him, its brow furrowed. Harry decided it was probably better if he explained quickly. "I've laid traps, around my home, to catch rabbits but they're probably the right size to catch sylphs too. You and your friends should be careful."

"We know," said the sylph. "We see. We not sylph. We shtojzovalle."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," replied Harry in surprise and made another hasty bow.

"We too," replied the shtojzovalle. "Always."

Then it disappeared into the forest, leaving a bewildered Harry in its wake, a bemused lynx watching from where it lay amongst the long grass at the bank of the river.


	7. Chapter 7

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë  
Chapter Seven**

The next day, Sternley took it upon himself to begin to teach Harry the fundamentals of enchanting. Harry was keen to learn for two reasons. Firstly it meant that Harry would soon be getting out of the forest which, despite how beautiful he found it, had begun to get even more terrifying at night now that he'd adjusted and begun to listen for the subtler sounds.

Secondly, there was something very appealing in the idea of creating something with two broad strokes of his wand that would last for a millennia or more.

It didn't take Sternley very long to disavow Harry of this notion.

Enchanting, he learned, while infinitely more complicated than he could have imagined, was broadly spirited into three main sequential parts. Though the spells that performed the actual magic were merely charms, they alone weren't enough to infuse an object with magical effects and were generally the second step in any project.

Instead the majority of the hard work and magic went into the first and final steps in the process. The first, according to Sternley, was where most wizards would fail when they tried to enchant an object. However, it was not particularly ability, practise or talent that it required in spades, but simply the understanding of the theory, which was mind-bendingly confusing.

The upshot of it, or at least how Sternley explained it, was that almost no objects are inherently magical and though magic could leave traces on an object, it couldn't lend magical attributes to something that would otherwise not have them because the object would know better. It was why wands needed a magical core and not just a stick.

"Take the very first piece of transfiguration you ever did," said Sternley, in his twentieth attempt at explaining in a different way. "You turned a toothpick into a needle."

"A matchstick actually," interjected Harry.

"A matchstick then," conceded Sternley patiently. "These are two objects that are, to all intents and purposes, nothing alike. You know this but more importantly the matchstick knows this and that's what is ultimately important. Transfiguration's job is to make the matchstick forget it's not a needle and give it a gentle push into becoming sharp, metallic and pointy."

"But like you said, needles are nothing like matches, one's made out of metal and one is made out of wood. Why are they so easy?"

"Because Lucas-Asimov's Deterministic Convergent Interpretation of Magical Induction says that two objects of significantly small enough mass and similar enough proportions are fundamentally similar," replied Sternley without missing a beat.

"You just made that up!" accused Harry quickly.

"Did not," replied Sternley. "It's a real thing."

"I don't believe you," said Harry. "I think you didn't know so you just spouted off a load of gob to keep me satisfied!"

"Prove it," said Sternley, sounding triumphant.

"Sorry, who did you say wrote that law?" asked Harry.

"Do you want me to teach you or not?" countered Sternley, a severe tone creeping into his voice.

"Yes, yes," replied Harry, quick to smooth Sternley's ruffled feathers. "I don't want to spend the rest of my life in this forest."

"Right, well, where was I?" asked Sternley. "Oh yes, transfiguration. Well the first stage of enchanting is to convince the object that you're enchanting that it does have the ability to manipulate magic. And like transfiguration, it can't last forever. Just as the pile of broken glass knows it was once a mirror and the matchstick remembers that it is not a needle. Magic leaves traces. So not only is enchanting fiendishly difficult but you've got to accept that unless you're exceptionally bright, your enchanted sword is eventually going to remember it cannot shoot fireballs out of the tip."

"You haven't," replied Harry.

"That's because the man that enchanted me was three parts exceptionally bright, two parts hard-working and five parts lucky."

"I'm pretty lucky," offered Harry.

"You're the most unlucky person I've ever met," replied Sternley. "Your parents are dead. You got landed with the worst set of muggles I've seen for four hundred years. You killed a teacher in your first year and a basilisk in your second and then got lost in an uninhabited, deadly forest from which your only escape is to have a hat teach you one of the most complex magical practices you could ever hope to come across.

"Forgive me if I don't trust your luck," he concluded, a gentle note of sympathy creeping into his tone.

"Well I haven't died," Harry pointed out.

"Which only goes to show that the universe has a sense of humour," replied Sternley, chuckling slightly. "Anyway, back to the matter at hand: so if it's a given that eventually your object is going to remember that it's not actually able to perform magic, how do you extend this lifespan?

"In the past people have tried finding ways of attaching magical reservoirs to an enchanted object to prolong its life, which if you think about it, makes almost no sense. They've tried inventing self-spelling wands to install into the objects, with pathetic results.

"In the end, there's a half dozen or so ways you can actually do it, but the one that's become the most popular over the years is actually the most straight forward. You essentially bind the original piece of magic to a controller, whether it be a mechanical operation, a thought, a word. When you activate this controller, the object forgets that it cannot do magic and this activates the magical effect you've imbued the object with."

Harry frowned in thought. Sternley had been right, it hadn't made much sense to him, but he couldn't help but feel the hat probably hadn't explained it particularly well.

"So," he said and then paused to iron out the last few details in his head. "If I wanted to make a flying stone, I would have to make the stone forget that its not just a stone—"

"It's called an artifice," supplied Sternley.

"So first I'd artifice the stone," amended Harry. "Then I'd cast the spell on it—"

"Imbibe."

"Imbibe it with the spell. And finally I'd bind the artifice to a trigger."

"You have the essence of it," said Sternley. "It's a little more difficult in practice and often you'd have to have three wizards working in conjunction so that they could act in tandem, leaving as little possible time between the completion of each phase."

"Why?" asked Harry, his curiosity enflamed.

"Well, imagine you're going to create a prolabator — a large ball of lead that was intended to be stuck into a trebuchet and exploded a couple of seconds after impact — say you perform the artificing perfectly, then you put the enchantment on it. The moment you do so, it's going to explode in your face. If you've a second wizard to bind it as you layer the enchantments on, it's far less likely that you'll be obliterated into a thousand little pieces."

"I see," replied Harry. "And so how do the bindings work?"

"And that's where the magic really comes in so to speak. As well as all of the pride, jealousy, theft and false information spreading," said Sternley with a laugh. When he caught Harry's expression of bewilderment, he continued. "There's an awful lot of competition between enchanters in the magical world, some rather pointless and petty backstabbing too and the binds are all at the heart of it. I'm not talking about your dime a dozen enchanters making cameras, wireless sets or portrait canvasses.

"Or even those capable of producing something as elaborate, but relatively simple as your car— that'll just require a lot of hard work. No, we're talking about those with the ability to produce things of incredible magical sophistication. It's difficult to understand, given that the majority of your life in the magical world you've spent in Hogwarts being exposed to some of the greatest feats of magic ever attempted.

"Things like Vanishing Cabinets, the Mirror of Erised and, well, me are all beyond the realms of almost any wizard alive in Britain today. In fact, there's three wizards probably capable of producing anything of that sophistication— Damocles Belby, Thane Ogden and Lucius Malfoy."

"Lucius Malfoy?" asked Harry, aghast. "He got beaten up by his house-elf."

"You don't think that family made their money from washing windows, do you?" asked Sternley. "That's the thing about enchanters, it's not necessarily the ability of the wizard, but the history of their blood. The wizarding world has no form of intellectual property, so the moment one person invents something, every other Tom, Dick and Harry is welcome to roll his sleeves back to his elbow and get stuck in.

"The only way anyone can protect their ideas is to build it in a way that nobody else can understand it. So all three of those enchanters and a slew of the lesser enchanters will have their own style, their own binds, their own incredibly complicated methods of ensuring nobody can pick their work apart. And all of that information has been passed from father to son for the last thousand years or so."

"So only they know how to do it?"

"There are others. I have no doubt that Dumbledore could very easily compete with the best of them, despite not having the blood for it if he really wanted to. I know that McGonagal and Flitwick are probably close on their heels, considering they've only got half the binds at their disposal, but they'll never become enchanters."

"Why not?"

"It's an incredibly unpleasant game," said Sternley. "When Lucius Malfoy is the most pleasant of the three big names, you might get an inkling of what I'm talking about. Twenty years ago, Belby's daughter Maira seduced Ogden's brother Bob in a pub, drugged him and made off with half the family's literature. All because ten years earlier Tiberius Ogden killed Edon Malfoy in a duel over a signature bind that was of disputed origin which I know for a fact that Druella Black sold to both of them for a small fortune."

"Druella Black?"

Sternley gave him an odd look, somewhere between a frown of confusion and curiosity.

"The Noble and Most Ancient House of Blacks were an old, old family," he said, cautiously. "They've all pretty much died out or been married off now. There's a couple of them around still, but I don't think there's been anyone with the Black name at large for eleven years."

"Since—" began Harry, then stopped and looked at the ground. "Did he—?"

"No, no. They were big supporters of his. Regulus Black joined him though," replied Sternley, his voice distant. "Anyway, how about we start working on some magic, eh?"

Harry nodded quickly and drew his wand, eager to begin.

"Where do we start?" asked Sternley, slipping into a tone that Harry could only identify as his teaching voice.

"With the artifice!" replied Harry quickly and happily.

"Correct," replied Sternley. "Grab yourself a couple of decent sized rocks and we'll get to work."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** This is a special update for Christian, who has completely awed me with his gushing and ardent praise of this story. Thanks bro, you have no idea how much you inspire me, hope you keep reading and loving this story. Peace.

BTW, /~TomYoung is still producing some pretty awesome stuff, go read his stuff when you're done with mine.

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë  
Chapter Eight**

While artificing was far, far harder work than Harry could have ever expected. It at least taught him something exceedingly valuable about himself— in the last two years, he'd been exceptionally lazy in class.

He knew that he'd never worked as hard as Hermione had and had always consoled himself with the fact that despite it, he'd always been a little above average. But it was only as he really threw himself into learning to artifice that he realised how little he'd really been pushing himself.

Never before had he felt so exhausted, confused, overwhelmed and challenged by anything he'd been learning. Yet still onward he pressed and every little gain, breakthrough and eureka moment convinced him that he'd been working far below his potential.

Sternley, who'd assured him that artificing was almost certainly first year NEWT stuff, was astounded with the slow but steady advance Harry was making into the field. He was obviously still miles away from producing any actual results but his attempts were getting more and more worthy.

For what felt like the thousandth time of trying, Harry lifted his wand and directed it toward the rock on the ground in front of him. Behind him lay the stone's thirty or so cracked siblings, some broken cleanly through the middle and others pulverized into a fine gravel.

The first stage of artificing Harry felt he knew by heart. That first flutter of something that he'd grown to understand as the vaguest of magical consciousness as he tapped into the natural inclinations of the stone before him.

'I am a stone on the ground, watch how I sit,' thought Harry, who'd found after his hundred and fifty ninth attempt that empathising with the rock seemed to help his cause. 'As soon as stones can swim, leaves will sink. He who pelts every barking dog must pick up a great many stones. Those who move mountains must begin with a single stone. I am that stone.'

Of course, Harry knew that nothing the stone felt was anything close to as complicated as forming even an idea. Not to mention letters, words, sentences and concepts as large as a proverb, but somehow it gave him the understanding of what it might be like to be a rock.

With he and the stone as similar as they could possibly be, Harry began to oppress its natural inclinations. It knew and was perfectly content with the idea that it was just a rock. Harry was determined to disavow it of this notion and convince it that it could, in fact, perform great feats of magic beyond anything any mere rock could hope to achieve.

Harry found it helped if he thought of himself as the rock's own personal Sternley.

"Come on," he whispered to the rock, as the breeze around him picked up around him. "You could be so much more. A hero amongst the rocks."

'I don't want this,' he imagined the stone saying, crossing its rocky arms stubbornly. 'Why me? I'm only a rock'

"Sometimes it is not a question of why or who but a question of what must be done," continued Harry, oblivious to the looks Sternley was giving him from not too far away.

At this precise moment, Harry felt the subtle resistance that had been pushing against his intentions crumble away and the rock become slowly accustomed to the idea that it might, somewhere deep down, be capable of magic.

"I'VE GOT IT!" shouted Harry in excitement and promptly lost it. "Or I did."

Sternley's brim broke into the widest grin that Harry had ever seen the hat give.

"Fantastic," declated the Sorting Hat. "You're making great progress, but you probably ought to take a break soon."

"A break?" asked Harry, then looked around and was surprised to see how long the shadows were around him.

Time had quite slipped away from him as he'd sat and worked. His stomach growled and his mouth was parched but despite all this, Harry was eager to press on. He twirled his wand dramatically between fingers that had been growing hugely more dexterous and confident in the last few days.

"Just one more?" he asked, glancing up at Sternley with big eyes, but Sternley laughed him off.

"You were just having a conversation with a rock," said the hat, shaking slightly with mirth. "I think it's probably time for a break."

Even Harry couldn't argue with this and so rose and stretched, working out the kinks that had developed in his joints from the hours spent hunching over lumps of rock.

"Fancy a walk to the river and back?" he asked. "I probably ought to check those snares too."

Sternley looked toward the sky, then nodded slightly.

"We ought to be quick," he said. "But I suppose if we don't, anything caught in them will be gone by morning."

Together they followed the wide loop around the campsite to each of the traps they'd set. Most of them were intact, one had been disturbed but hadn't caught anything — this one Harry reset — another had caught a squirrel that hung limply in the trap which Harry retrieved and the final one contained a live rabbit that thrashed madly as Harry approached.

He looked at it for a long moment. It was the first live animal that he'd caught — both the squirrel he'd caught today and the hare he'd found yesterday had been dead long before he reached them. This one however was only partially caught in the trap and its struggles against the sharp wire had cut it and spread blood all over the forest floor.

"You need to be quick, Harry," said Sternley, comfortingly from his perch on Hedwig. "You're doing him an unkindness the longer you leave it alive."

"I know," said Harry and even though his stomach still churned, he lifted the sword of Gryffindor.

Ten minutes later when they arrived at the river, there was no sign of the shtojzovalle. Harry had told Sternley of his interesting encounter with the creature and the hat had confessed he'd never heard of the creatures before, nor knew anything about them.

Harry stood, with Hedwig on his shoulder and Sternley, in turn, on her head and watched the orange light shatter on the surface of the choppy water. The wind picked up around him and shook the boughs of the trees, showering him with leaves. The rich perfume of the blossoms in the trees wafted around him and slipping seductively into his nostrils.

A single comet, just visible against the dying rays of the sun flickered into existence for a solitary second then was extinguished, like a candle in the breeze.

A strange intangible quality of the atmosphere reminded him of the night he'd left Hogwarts and filled him with an uncomfortable feeling in his chest.

Tonight he ought to be sleeping in the spare room at the Dursley's as the baking heat of endless summer days blended together into an endless summer. Instead he was hopelessly lost in an impenetrable, hostile forest.

He couldn't decide which was worse: hopelessly lost, or hopelessly bound.

Terrifying or boring.

Yet, he decided, glancing up at Sternley and Hedwig, his companions silhouetted against the blaze of the setting sun, he knew it was better to be with friends.

"I'm glad you're here, Sternley," said Harry as the sun drew away from the dark. "You too Hedwig."

"So am I," replied Sternley honestly.

"Bark," said Hedwig.


	9. Chapter 9

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë  
****Chapter Nine**

Harry returned to artificing the next day and, drawing on the experience of his breakthrough the day before, picked it up remarkably quickly. In almost no time at all, Harry was producing artificed stones that were almost clamouring for magic to perform.

"Excellent," declared Sternley, as Harry produced the twentieth such stone. "I think its time to move on to the theory of binding."

"You missed a step," Harry pointed out quickly. "Don't I need to know the charms first?"

"Point your wand at that rock," said Sternley. "Say 'Wingardium Leviosa' and swish and flick with the wand."

Harry lowered his wand and glowered.

"You asked me to teach you to perform charms," remarked the hat genially.

"I know the levitation spell," snapped Harry. "But what if I wanted to make it shoot the stinging hex or something?"

"How is a stone that shoots stinging hexes going to help get you out of this forest?"

"You know what I mean," replied Harry. "What about the braking charm? The— the— the—"

"The— The— The—" stammered Sternley in a mocking voice. "Honestly, the charm work will be the hardest bit, I want to leave it until last and it honestly doesn't matter in which order you learn these two."

"I thought you said that the artificing was the hardest bit?" objected Harry.

"No, I said that artificing was the hardest bit for most wizards who start enchanting. If you haven't noticed yet, you're not most wizards," explained Sternley. "Most wizards probably wouldn't begin enchanting until their last year at Hogwarts. You're ahead of the curve when it comes to artificing and way behind when it comes to charm work. We're going to have to improve your general level of wandwork to perform the charms I'm asking you to do."

Harry grumbled in annoyance. The charms themselves had been what had really interested him about the entire processes. Spells that were practical and concrete — not to mention those which he could apply to his flying — were always an added bonus when learned. He remembered in first year going well out of his way one sunday afternoon to learn a bristle straightening charm for his broom, just because Ron had mentioned it could be done.

"Now binds come in a variety of flavours," said Sternley. "Most of the ones you'll need to know are pretty basic and widely available to most wizards in your standard sort of textbooks, but there's a couple of others I know that I think Newt Scamander may have invented at some point last century and they make nice substitutions for a couple of the more difficult ones that you'd have trouble with.

"But to start with the basics, firstly there's the albright bind—"

For the next several hours, Sternley lectured Harry on the variety of binds. They covered the albright bind, which would slow the rate at which the object would expend its lifespan. Following that were the klael, falconer, garda and itallian binds, which could be used to control the various properties of the enchanment.

Next they covered the magnus bind, which translated physical input into what Sternley called universal magical constant, which was itself a difficult concept to understand. The simplest explanation the hat could offer was that it was used to pass information between the binds— a sort of magical electrical current.

It was only as Sternley began to describe the properties of the universal magical constant that Harry realised quite how complicated the process of binding was. There had to be a bind that detected the input and as each variety of input had a slightly different bind there were as many of these as colours under the sun.

Then each of the inputs had a unique bind that translated them into the universal magical constant and further binds called threads routed the constant exactly and efficiently to their relevant controlling bind. This bind would then need another translation bind to convert them into the correct magical outputs.

And all of this was for a simple system consisting of inputs and outputs. Sternley explained that most systems were a great deal more complicated and had to contain intermediatery steps in the middle of the thread which required two more translation binds for each step as well as the steps themselves.

Not to mention the other binds needed to stabilise the system, keep paticular threads isolated and the vast number of failsafes that needed to be bound into any paticular system.

It wasn't only the logic of the problem that proved a challenge, but the actual theory behind it was also almost staggering complex. At first Sternley encouraged him to draw diagrams in the dirt with a stick, laying them out neatly with straight lines to represent the threads and boxes to represent the controlling binds.

"But of course," said Sternley, after about six hours of this practice. "That's not at all how it works."

"I'm sorry?" asked Harry, screwing up his face.

"Binds, and well most magic really, don't really occupy physical space like that," he pointed out. "Drawing them like that is convenient to record and design them, but you need to understand that it's purely representational."

"So what do they look like?"

"Well, they don't really look like anything, they just are. There's no physical interaction between the spells, it's all completely symbolic and extraphysical."

At this comment, Harry allowed his head to fall into his hands feeling more frustrated by the second.

But despite that, he did slowly find himself making progress. Little by little he learned how to use, manipulate and combine bindings. But and to his complete surprise, not only did he learn the how, but also the why. Why the falconer bind was more appropriate than the garda for controlling objects that moved — it was comprised of eight subsections and arithmetically eight suited movement — and why certain configurations of binds and enchantments required certain stabilising binds — to balance the galedecian prime.

Whatever that was.

When Sternley's lessons came to a stop once more, Harry found himself parched and starving again. The sky had clouded over as well, which Harry contemplated as unusual in summer, but he'd experienced summer thunderstorms before and wasn't overtly concerned.

Instead he went to the boot of the car, where he'd been stockpiling his food and water out of the reach of wildlife, and tucked into the little food and water he had left. He'd have to make another circle of the traps soon enough, forage some more nettles and retrieve some more water from the stream before it went dark, but for those few minutes, Harry just enjoyed the smell of the forest around him, the chattering of the birds in the trees and the far away bleating of a solitary deer.

"It's about to rain," observed Sternley.

"I suppose it must be," replied Harry.

"I think we ought to put some weather wards up."

"A litte bit of rain never hurt anyone."

"All the same, it's prudent to be careful. Last thing we want is for the poultice to be washed from the ward-stakes."

Harry could see the wisdom in this and so he and Sternley spent a few minutes driving ash stakes into the ground, just outside the original set of wards and outlining the square between them with small, consecrated stones. It was more ritual magic, which interested Harry very much, and would keep the area dry, temperate and most importantly lightning free.

Even Harry, glancing at the enormous metal car out of the corner of his eye, could see the merit in this last bit.

As evening rolled in, Harry stacked some more wood on the fire and settled in against the tyre of the car, enjoying the warmth of the flames. He'd completed the neccessary chores; emptied and re-set his traps, collected water and cleaned the muck off his face, cut firewood for the evening and double-checked the ward-stakes for signs of degredation.

Sternley had discouraged him from working any further on binds, artificing or charmwork. Too much of a good thing, or something like that. Instead, he decided Harry ought to get to grips with the enchantment that Mr. Weasley himself had done and see if they couldn't figure out where it had gone wrong. So Harry set about transfiguring some neccessary tools and then piece by piece, they stripped the body work of the car, ensuring that Harry knew how to remove and replace each part individually.

In the next few hours, Harry learned that reverse engineering bound spellwork was an awful lot harder than it sounded. For one thing, as Sternley had said, the magic had no form, so he couldn't see anything. Secondly, although Mr. Weasley hadn't used any of the locking binds that Sternley had said some enchanters would use — these would prevent the removal of the other binds — it was almost impossible to know what a bind was before you removed it.

Only by first finding out exactly how each bind responded when poked, then removing the bind and then replacing it in turn with each bind Harry knew until they recieved the same result could they figure out which bind was which. At first Harry began to mentally catalogue these results, thinking they'd help him later, but soon realised that it was almost worthless data. The spell interactions were so complex that it was extremely unlikely that the same bind would respond in the same manner twice.

In the end — with copious wandwork, hours of doodling in the mud and numerous oaths, of which Sternley had an amazing repetoire — Harry had a fairly fully-fledged understanding of how the enchanments had been bound together. The ground around the car was a web of boxes, letters and lines that spread out in every direction, sometimes for several feet.

It was chaotic.

"Most wizards explore enchanting on their own," explained Sternley. "Most wouldn't have an instructor like you do. They'd be working from a whole series of different texts that each told them something different."

Harry could tell that this was exactly how Mr. Weasley had learned, for the enchanting was a strange piecemeal combination of different, often conflicting binds. He indicated a strange loop of binds in one corner of the diagram on the floor that he couldn't make head nor tail of.

"What are those for?" he asked curiously and was surprised by the expression of disgust on the hat's face.

"I doubt Arthur Weasley had any idea what those binds do," he said, in a disgusted voice. "I imagine he lifted them straight from another Tela."

"What's a Tela?" asked Harry.

"That's a Tela," replied Sternley, indicating the spidery diagram around the car. "Normally they're neater and in a book, but the essence is there."

Harry nodded in understanding.

"And what's wrong with those binds?"

"Unusual stuff," responded Sternley, a strange darkness in his voice that Harry hadn't ever heard before. "Almost makes me wonder where he got them. Where does he work?"

"The Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office in the Ministry," supplied Harry quickly. "But what does it do?"

"It's difficult to explain," said the Sorting Hat. "It makes it sentient to a degree in order to bind it to the will of the enchanter, make it unerringly subservient. It's normally used to make magical materials behave in a paticular way that they wouldn't usually."

"But Mr. Weasley couldn't have known that," pointed out Harry.

"No and it's certainly missing the identifying bind," replied Sternley. "Which essentially means it's subservient to nobody."

"Well that's good isn't it?" asked Harry, feeling suddenly proud of the car. "It's like a new life."

"Except it isn't alive," replied Sternley, his brow furrowed. "It isn't really sentient, there's just that glimmer of intelligence there."

"It saved Ron and me from a pack of great dirty spiders," Harry pointed out and this made Sternley frown even more.

"And that worries me even more. It shouldn't be able to reason at that level."

"Spell interactions?"

"Must be, but I can't for the life of me figure out what could be causing it," admitted Sternley.

"Well you're sentient," observed Harry. "So are all the portraits in Hogwarts, the photographs in my album and so was—"

He stopped short.

"Tom Riddle's diary?" asked Sternley, an ominous tone to his voice, then the frown on his face rescinded and he made his curious shrugging motion. "It won't be that bad, but I do wonder where Arthur Weasley got the idea to enchant a car to fly."


	10. Chapter 10

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë  
****Chapter Ten**

The clouds above broke during the night. Thunder fell thick and fast as though thrown, with some apparent amount of glee, by an errant and mischievous god. Enormous bolts erupted from the sky, scorching the earth and blistering everything around it. Several trees around Harry found themselves abruptly immolated by columns of fire that burned entire feet into the ground.

Harry, for his part, cowered in the Anglia, hoping that it really would protect him from the storm— he half remembered hearing this somewhere in the muggle world. It was not that he didn't trust his weather wards, but in fairness they'd only been described to him by a hat.

However he discovered, to his pleasure, that he could certainly trust the hat's judgement as an enormous lightning bolt struck a semi-transparent dome of light above the car. Everything was suddenly overwhelmed in a bright flash of light that burned itself into his retinas and sent him quivering to footwell.

It was only several hours later, when he was certain the clouds had petered away, that he finally crawled, blinking, into the pale moonlight.

Despite the early hour and the age he seemed to have been awake, he was not in the slightest tired. Nor was he worried by the carnage that surrounded him, rather he was deeply fascinated by what he saw.

Deep trenches were cut into the ground where a flying branch had been hurled, by the enormous force of the wind, against the ground. Entire trunks were rent in two, split by the fall of the lightning. The forest floor was pockmarked with dark ringed craters and an all pervasive smell of burnt wood and superheated air invaded his nostrils to take up permanent residence.

Sternley proved far less adventurous than Harry.

"What does it look like out there?" he called, his voice soft as though not to attract the ire of the fleeing storm. Harry laughed softly as he examined the still smoking ruins of what had once been a mighty oak.

"It's cleared up beautifully," replied Harry, his eyes drifting up to the twinkling stars in the sky and the slightly brightening sky to the east. "Even the rabbits are out in full force."

And indeed they were, hopping to and fro frantically, as though expecting the heavens to open on them once more. Harry couldn't help but smile as he observed their antics.

"Check on the wards," prompted Sternley, his voice quavering slightly.

Harry laughed again. Of all the things for the hat to be terrified of in this forest and he'd chosen the weather. Regardless, he went to check on the ward posts and found that one of his weather stakes had been damaged by a falling tree. Harry thought he and Sternley probably ought to correct this oversight in the morning, perhaps putting some more protective wards around the outside to prevent such things from happening, but it could wait.

He repaired the damage as best he could, his nimble fingers making short work of binding the stake back together with a length of knotted stalk, as Sternley had instructed him. He knew that the stake would eventually need replacing, but he was content to allow it to sit until morning— the slight crack wasn't enough to put them in any serious danger, especially with the storm dissipating.

Still, it was better to be safe than sorry and Harry hoped the ground would dry out soon. In its current boggy state he suspected that anything he attempted to drive into the earth would disappear for good.

His little checks made and chores completed, Harry made his way back to the car and clambered into the back seat. He'd only just managed to stretch himself out when lethargy and exhaustion swept over him in equal measures. As he dozed, he found his mind surprisingly full of thoughts and fears for his new friends the lynx and the shtojzovalle.

Just before he fell asleep, he made a pledge to find them in the morning and ensure they were alright.

He woke up bright and early the next day just as the sun peaked through the window of the Anglia, the bright rays catching motes of dust suspended in the air. Somehow the damage looked less severe in the daylight. Though the blackened stumps and ripped turf still looked like the victims of some horrific battle, there were was certainly less damage than he'd previously thought.

When he informed Sternley of his plan to go seeking out the shtojzovalle and the lynx, the hat was less than enthusiastic about the idea.

"They're not pets," he remarked in a careful tone. "They might not take kindly to your interfering."

"I'd rather them not take kindly to it than die because I didn't take action when I should," remarked Harry blithely. "They've been nice and neighbourly to me, I don't see why I shouldn't exchange the favour."

The rest of Sternley's vehement protests fell upon deaf ears and Harry quickly decided to leave the mouldy heirloom behind.

Instead he retrieved the sword of Gryffindor from the front seat and took the last of the cooked rabbit with him as he headed out into the forest. He slowly made his way to the area that he'd first seen the Lynx, hoping that this was where he'd made his hide. He wasn't disappointed either, for after five minutes of searching around the patch of nettles, he came upon the beast limping through the forest.

It froze when Harry drew close, narrowing its eyes and lifting its head to sniff at the air. Then it turned to look at him and regarded him with a wary look. He could see from the way it held its front paw aloft that it had done some considerable damage. He thought he could probably heal the wound with his newly learned 'Episkey' spell, but knew he couldn't do it in the open.

Luckily, he'd prepared for this.

"Come here," he crooned softly and cut a chunk of meat from the joint he was carrying. Then he backed several paces away. "Come on."

The lynx regarded him, then the meat, then raised his eyes to look at the boy again. Harry took another step backward. Slowly and very, very cautiously, it limped forward a pace, then another, then devoured the morsel of food with apparent relish.

Harry smiled in satisfaction.

Four times he repeated the process until finally leaving the rest of the joint just inside the wards. He wasn't sure if the wards would affect the lynx but to his relief they seemed not to. He went to sit on the bonnet of the car and watched as the Lynx, bolder now, came forward and began to gnaw at the meat on the ground, holding it on the ground with his paw and tearing pieces off with his teeth.

Harry lifted his wand.

"Episkey," he muttered, drawing the lowercase 'e' in the air.

The lynx went absolutely ballistic.

With a bellow of rage it shot about ten feet in the air, swinging around wildly. It landed on all fours and pulled itself close to the ground, its ears flattened to the back of its head. It stared around wildly, looking panicked and terrified.

"Don't worry," said Harry plaintively, feeling equally as panicked that the enormous predator was so spooked. "I just fixed your leg, I didn't mean to—"

But the lynx didn't let him finish and bolted into the undergrowth at top speed, disappearing before Harry could do or say anything.

"Well, don't say I didn't warn you," muttered Sternley from inside the car.

Hedwig barked her agreement.

"Well I don't care what you say," replied Harry, turning his back on the pair. "Better that he's spooked and healthy than dead."

Feeling slightly foolish, very embarrassed and more than a little annoyed, Harry stalked off toward the river swing the sword of Gryffindor angrily at any plants that came too close to him on his romp through the forest.

He didn't understand why the lynx had reacted so badly to his spell. He'd seen as it ran that it was no longer limping, so why wasn't it grateful? Couldn't it see he had helped it? Harry's brows furrowed as he thought. Even still, he'd been telling the truth; even if the lynx did hate him now, it was better that it was healthy, so it could still catch prey.

Then a terrible thought occurred to Harry; what if he was now prey?

He shook these thoughts away angrily, the lynx would come around. He should have explained himself, should have reasoned with it. It had always seemed to understand him before and like Sternley had said, he'd fallen into the trap of thinking of it like a pet— he was a wild animal.

When he reached the water, the shtojzovalle were clustered around the bank, their eyes lowered. They turned as he approached and he made a great show of laying his sword down by the bank before he came any closer. Laying on the grass between them was one of their number, his blue eyelids closed in death, a serene expression on his face.

"Oh no," whispered Harry, gazing down at him sadly. "I'm so sorry."

"We too," replied the shtojzovalle in unison. "Always."

Harry opened his mouth to ask what that even meant, but then decided this wasn't the time and closed it again. He joined them for a few minutes, staring down at the corpse, a strange knot in his throat. The shtojzovalle seemed like peaceful creatures and that one of them died so senselessly made him feel terrible.

"I wish there was something I could have done," he said softly and the nearest one turned a curious expression upon him.

"You are sad?" it asked simply and Harry realised there was no trace of grief on the creature's countenance.

"Yes," he said. "Aren't you?"

"Always," said the shtojzovalle, then looked at his dead friend. "But not him."

"I don't understand," admitted Harry.

"No need."

"But you're not upset?"

"He is lucky," it said with a shrug. "Always the innocent are the first to suffer."

"Ronan told me that once," said Harry, suddenly remembering first year in the forbidden forest.

"Wise Ronan," said the shtojzovalle.

"Wise Ronan," echoed his companions.

Harry stared in confusion, then shook his head clear.

"Look, I came to see if I could help you," he said. "Heal your wounded, cure your sick."

The shtojzovalle turned a deeply offended expression upon him.

"You look to curse us?" it asked, disgust falling from every syllable.

"I want to help," said Harry, more confused by the conversations direction than he thought he'd ever been before in his life.

The shtojzovalle's expression softened and he bowed his head slightly toward Harry.

"Some always do," he conceeded. "In ignorance, in blindness. You cannot help, thief."

"Thief?" asked Harry, still completely bewildered.

"Thief," repeated the shtojzovalle. "You stole them. Your blue flying box. Your sword. Your talking hat."

"I didn't steal them—" began Harry, intending to tell the creature how he'd intended to return them, how he'd only borrowed them. But then he realised that he hadn't merely borrowed them, he hadn't intended to return them, he'd not even considered it. "I didn't think."

"You have this problem often," it said, it's expression inscrutable. It wasn't a question.

Harry opened his mouth to retort angrily, then thought better of it and snapped his mouth closed. Wordlessly, seething with anger, he turned on the spot and stalked away from the river. As he passed, he snatched up the sword from the ground and as he strode through the forest hacking apart everything in his path.

He was almost hysterical with anger as he arrived back at the car. Still seething he buried the sword a few inches into the soft earth and kicked the wheel of the Anglia angrily.

"Harry," said Sternley softly, from the top of the car. "You meant well, Harry. Your heart was in the right place."

"Yes well apparently I'm ignorant and blind," snapped Harry and kicked the wheel again for good measure. "Apparently the innocent are the first to suffer and Mars is bright this evening and centaurs and shtojzovalle can go shove their head up their own—"

He stopped midsentence and stared at his hands— they were shaking with anger. Except it wasn't really anger, because he could feel the tears on his face and the pain in his chest as he tried to breath.

"What's wrong with me?" he asked, still staring at his hands which were covered in filth from days of being in the forest. One of his nails was cracked and gouged and there was a long scratch on one palm. "What am I doing here? What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing's wrong with you," said Sternley, soothingly. "You're just a little emotional right now."

"I don't mean—" began Harry, but choked on a sob that forced its way out of his mouth. He slid down the side of the car and leant one side of his face against the cool metal.

"I know what you meant," said Sternley in his ear. Hedwig had fluttered the hat down and his owl now pressed herself in to his body. "You're just a little confused, a little vunerable, a little hurt.

But Harry was thinking of the night he'd come here, the night he'd snapped and attacked Snape, the night he'd taken Sternley, the sword and the Anglia. Two words rose to his lips unbidden and he whispered them, half afraid of what they might mean,

"Psychotic break," he said, echoing the words he'd once heard a neighbour use in reference to Vernon's reaction to his Hogwarts letters. "Is that what this is?"

"No," said Sternley, in a sharp, no-nonsense sort of voice. "Don't be ridiculous. You were just a little confused, you've been fine for ages afterwards."

But Harry couldn't help but wonder if he had been. Couldn't help but wonder how he'd taken this entire thing so easily in his stride. Couldn't help but wonder if this was a fleeting moment of sanity in a week long episode of insanity. Couldn't help but wonder if any of this was really real.


	11. Chapter 11

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë  
****Chapter Eleven**

The rest of the day slipped away in a blur of cascading, mutating and overwhelming emotions. Harry found that although one moment he might be feeling extreme sadness, the next he might be feeling exceptionally giddy. In his brief moments of true lucidity, it terrified him, but the spells didn't last longer than a few minutes at a time, leaving him nothing to cling to as he slipped from emotion to emotion.

Sternley encouraged him to sleep early into the evening and Harry gladly allowed sleep to take him, the softly crackling fire basking his face with warmth and the stars glimmering overhead in the murky sky.

His dreams were unordered and chaotic. Filled with a myriad of strange faces and places, sights he'd seen in the forests of Valbonë and half-remembered people he'd met in his childhood. And all the while, Harry was running — chasing — a dark shape that fluttered from room to room, from place to place and across the faces of the people he encountered.

He stopped running only when he ran head first into a small blonde first year, who almost went crashing to the ground but Harry, thinking quickly, swept in and caught her. He turned with her body weight and righted her with the same single movement, momentarily lifting her feet from the ground as he spun with her. She spun away from him, laughing merrily.

"My, my," she said, a serene smile on her lips. "Mister Enchanter, you dance divinely."

Harry looked from the girl to the talking stone in his hand and smiled, then regarded the blonde girl a little closer. She was effervescent, happy and burned his eyes like the sun.

"Has anyone ever told you, you look like an angel?" asked Harry, with the acute awareness that his unreality was falling apart around him.

"You, every time you see me," she said. "All your life."

He awoke with a start, jerking out of the dream as though he'd just fallen into an icy pool, his lungs gasping for breath and his heart hammering against the inside of his chest. For a moment he panicked, with no idea where he was, then he became aware of the uncomfortable prickling sensation of the cars material against his skin and the quiet movements of Hedwig as she napped in the front seat.

He sat up and caught sight of Sternley, bizarrely squeezed into the gap between the passenger headrest and the roof of the car. The hat's eyes roamed over him, a strange expression fixed to its features.

"How are you feeling?" asked the hat, his tone terse and worried.

Harry wasn't exactly sure, he didn't feel as desolate and empty as he had in the final days of his second year at Hogwarts, but neither did he feel the carefree naivety that he'd been feeling during his days in the forest. Something sullen had come over him— something unhappy, but not as gleefully angsty as the sadness that had overtaken him before.

"Thin," he said finally, when Sternley began to rustle impatiently. "Stretched. Empty."

"Sane?" asked Sternley, his tone of voice blut.

"Yes," replied Harry, after careful consideration. "Like you said— just unhappy.

"Good," said Sternley, his voice still slightly wary, but then added in a stronger voice. "Good."

"I'm starving," said Harry, as his stomach rumbled.

"You'll have to wait until daylight," said Sternley, glancing out of the window at the slightly lightening sky.

"Okay," said Harry, simply. "In that case, until then you can teach me the charms I'm going to need to get out of here."

"I'm not sure you're—"

"I'm ready," insisted Harry in a forceful tone of voice, then allowed it to drop to a more respectful level. "I've got to be, or I'm never going to get out of here."

Sternley sighed, then nodded his acquiescence.

"We'd better get started then," he said. "Lets take your mind off your stomach, eh?"

When Sternley had said the charms would be the hardest bit of the process for Harry, he really hadn't been lying. The binds, the artificing and the theory had been challenging, there was no doubt about that, but Harry was beginning on more or less the same level that any wizard might come to it. There was no precursor to these things and Harry had been able to start at the simplest level and work his way up to the level required in a fairly short timespan.

But the charms he was required to cast, while simple to the majority of wizards who would be beginning to enchant, relied heavily upon years of schoolwork he'd not yet done, hours of wand technique that he'd never had a chance to try, let alone master. Not to mention entire bookfuls of theory, most of which he'd never heard of or seen, let alone read.

After what felt like his thousandth attempt to cast the Horton-Kietch breaking charm, Sternley gave an annoyed grunt and shook his head in consternation.

"This is no good," he said. "Completely hopeless. We're not getting anywhere like this."

"Well I'm sorry," snapped Harry, heat rising to his skin and his brow folding into a frown. "But what other choice do we have?"

"I didn't mean it like that," explained Sternley patiently. "I just mean I'll have to figure out another way to teach you."

Harry's expression softened, then he felt suddenly embarrassed by his little outburst, but Sternley seemed to discard it with a little shake of his brim.

"It's alright," he assured him quickly, then glanced out the window, to where the dawn had fully broken and the sun bathed the forest in a stunning haze of shimmering light. "Perhaps you ought to go find something to eat now."

Harry set off into the forest alone, the tip of his sword gently trailing amongst the grass as he held it limply at his side. He had completely forgotten to check, empty and reset the traps the previous day, with all the excitement and to his dismay he found all of them sprung and the caught animals ravaged by scavengers. There was nothing he could do but reset them and leave.

He went to the riverbank instead to collected a number of edible plants he'd learned weren't poisonous. All the while he kept his eyes peeled for the lynx and the shtojzovalle, but saw nothing of either. He washed his face and headed back to the car, using the last of his carefully conserved water to boil his meagre breakfast.

As he ate, Hedwig fluttered down to his shoulder and hooted softly in his ear. He leant his cheek gently against her, the warmth of her body pleasant against his skin.

"Harry?" he heard Sternley call from inside the car. "I've figured it out!"

Abandoning his soup half eaten, Harry rose and stuck his head through the open car window, giving the hat inside a questioning look.

"We're going to try a rolling mutation," said Sternley, seriously and Harry couldn't help but laugh.

"Is this one of those things you've made up?" he asked.

"No—" said Sternley, hotly, but then in a strained voice he admitted. "Well— yes— sort of. The theory isn't mine, but I've never seen it done, or heard of anyone actually do it."

"That's reassuring."

"Don't worry, it'll work."

"So how does one go about doing a 'rolling mutation'?" asked Harry, retrieving Sternley from the car and returning to his seat on the grass, placing the hat beside him.

"Right," said Sternley, slipping into what Harry had come to know as his 'teaching voice'. "We're going to go back to the matchstick."

Harry frowned, once again finding himself confused by Sternley's cryptic comments. After a second though, something clicked in his memory and he realised what Sternley was talking about.

"Transfiguration?" he asked. "What's transfiguration got to do with it?"

"Everything," replied Sternley simply. "The inherent principle behind a rolling mutation is that you make small incremental changes to a particular spell in order to make it do something else entirely. We're going to make small changes to your matchstick transfiguration. It's a simple enough spell that you can an understanding of the basic principle without worrying too much about the spell itself."

Sternley finished talking and gazed at Harry, who stared back at him with a blank expression.

"What?" asked the hat after several long moments.

"You lost me after the word 'inherent'," explained Harry.

"This is as productive as trying to teach algebra to a stone," grumbled Sternley.

"Well obviously stones can't learn algebra," replied Harry, being deliberately obtuse. "They don't like Math."

Despite Sternley's best efforts, the next few hours saw painfully little progress on Harry's part. It was slow, terribly dull work, but nonetheless he did improve and degree by degree, Harry came to understand exactly what it was that Sternley was trying to teach him.

"This is pretty cool," admitted Harry, holding his wand over the constantly mutating lump of wood sat on the ground before him. "I'd never thought of transfiguration like this before."

As he sat and concentrated, the wood began to take form. First it rose upward into a solid cylindrical block and then as though being carved by an invisible craftsman, it slowly began to take the shape of a goblet. First narrowing in the middle to create a fluted stem and then, parted from the middle outwards to become hollow. Before finally making the transition from wood to metal.

It was a stark contrast to Harry's previous experience with the art of transfiguration, which had always seemed to be about single spells and immediate results. This new method was subtler, more nuanced. Although admittedly far more taxing on his brain.

Sternley was ecstatic with his progress, although Harry thought perhaps for the wrong reasons.

"What did I tell you?" he asked, a gloating tone in his voice. "Remember Harry, always trust the hat!"

"Alright, alright," replied Harry. "But how is this going to help me learn the Horton-Keitch braking charm?"

"Well, in exactly the same way you were able to morph that stick into a goblet in stages. We'll take the spell you know with the closest composition and effect and mutate it until you end up with the desired result."

"So, I'll have to go through these same steps every time I want to cast the charm? That seems very complicated."

"The theory is that by mutating into the spell, you'll gain a better understanding of just exactly what that spell entails, so you'll be more likely to learn to cast it in the traditional manner."

"Ah, the theory is, is it?" replied Harry, pulling a face. "Do you know what I think about the theory? I think you can shove the theory—"

"Hear me out," interjected Sternley quickly. "You've just completed a fairly complicated bit of transfiguration with the rolling mutation. You agree that you wouldn't have been able to do it without the mutation?"

"Probably not," agreed Harry readily. "Haven't really been able to do anything like that in McGonagall's class."

"Well try it now. The traditional spell I mean. Try and visualize all the elements you practised with the mutation, keep in the forefront of your mind the sensation of performing the magic and then try and condense it into the single spell."

Harry fetched a fresh stick and sat down once more, concentrating very closely on the shape and dimensions of the stick. Then he forced to the forefront of his mind all the changes he'd been able to make and the way the magic had felt.

He sat thinking for several seconds and then, suddenly, everything clicked into place in his mind.

It wasn't something he'd have been able to explain later, he certainly couldn't have described the deeply disconcerting sensation, but in that instant he knew exactly how to work the spell.

And with a flick of his wand, the stick became a goblet.

Harry gaped at it.

He'd really done it— transfiguration at a level of complexity he'd been miles away from when he'd woken up that morning.

True, the goblet was misshapen, leafy and the metal surface had a distinct wood-grain to it. But it was indisputably a goblet.

"See," said Sternley simply and Harry could only nod in amazement. "A little more practice and you'll have it down. Now all we need to do is start working on your charms."

With Sternley's new teaching technique, Harry began to learn charms at a rate he scarcely believed himself. Every two or three hours seemed to lead to some new, exciting breakthrough. And for each breakthrough Harry's thirst for another, similar milestone led to a redoubling of his own efforts.

It was astonishing, really. Harry had rediscovered a passion for magic the likes of which he hadn't felt since the beginning of his first year. A passion that had been extinguished partly by the uninspiring lessons he attended and partly by the constant exposure to magic as a whole.

And it wasn't as though Hogwarts was a poor school. Far from it. It just treated magic as an everyday fact of life, a matter of convenience. A time-saver and an enabler, rather than an integral, crucial, beautiful art.

He remembered, as he worked, the excitement, bewilderment and exhilaration he'd felt the first time he'd taken a stroll through Diagon Alley with Hagrid. The first time he'd touched his wand. The first time he'd ridden a broomstick. The first time he'd cast a spell.

Little by little he rediscovered his passion for magic. However, now he wasn't impressed by the feats of other wizards, but by his own ability. By the things he could do with his wand.

When Sternley finally decided to call it a day, Harry had learned nine new spells. Each of which would contribute in some significant way to repairing the car. The more complex charms that would comprise the propulsion system and chassis balancing had been set aside for tomorrow, but Sternley had assured him that by the following evening, they'd be ready to leave the forest.

But as he rose and stretched, he looked around and wondered if he really wanted to abandon the forest that had changed him so much. Because that's exactly what it had done, he realised in that moment. The forest had taken the shattered pieces of his naïve, broken mind and remade him.

The end result had been something, someone, simultaneously similar to the boy that had entered the forest and completely different. The Harry Potter that had left the Chamber of Secrets had died. The Harry Potter that had protected the Philosopher's Stone had died. The Harry who had first arrived in Hogwarts, naïve and astonished had died. The Harry who had fled before Dudley's gangs down the sunlit streets of Surrey had died.

And in their place stood Harry Potter.

He pushed his thoughts aside with images of his friends, who he knew must be terrified by his disappearance and this strengthened his resolve to return home.

Only now did he realise how empty his stomach felt, so Harry set off into the rapidly descending night to find a belated dinner.

"You coming?" Harry asked Sternley.

"Hmm?" responded the Sorting Hat, looking up from the Tela that still spider-webbed around the car. The two of them had been simplifying it between spells and though a lot of the redundant binds had been removed, it still looked very complicated to Harry. "No, no. You go ahead, I'm thinking over this section."

Harry looked down at the indicated area and recalled instantly how frustratingly difficult it had proven to figure out exactly how that loop had worked.

"Suit yourself," said Harry, taking the sword and walking out of the warded area.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the mossy ground and caught the leaves of the trees around him, dappling the forest with warmth. The blooming flowers that dotted the ground perfumed the air with their sweet scent and the slightest of breezes ruffled the hair of his fringe.

The first two traps he encountered had been sprung, but whatever they had caught had either escaped or been found by one of the other predators that lurked in the forest. However the third one he came to held a live rabbit that thrashed madly as Harry approached, blood welling up where the noose met the creature's neck.

"Hold still," he whispered, crouching down closer and lifting the sword.

However just as the tip came down, the rabbit leapt aside and the blade, instead of slicing through the beast's neck, cut neatly through the loop that held the noose to the tree.

The rabbit bolted away through the undergrowth, scattering leaves left, right and centre as it flailed wildly.

Harry muttered one of Sternley's favourite colourful curses and followed it at a trot. He didn't want to leave the wounded, dying creature loose in the forest, especially since he wanted his snare back. So after a moment of hesitation he carefully tracked the fallen leaves and hurried paw prints, following the creature's maddened flight through the forest.

However, after following it for some five or ten minutes, it came to an abrupt end where it intersected with the track of some, much larger creature. Harry gazed at the size of the enormous paw prints, nearly the size of his hand, and swallowed thickly.

He stood for a moment, staring at them, then decided to follow the rabbits trail back to where he'd started. He'd only been walking a minute however, when he realised that he wasn't following a trail at all, but just a random pattern of misplaced leaves and bent stems.

He swallowed again and glanced up at the sky. The sun had slipped bellow the canopy of the trees now and the only light that remained for him to see by was the very little that found its way between the trunks.

He knew what a dangerous situation he was in now. If the sun set and he was still out alone if the forest, he'd be completely defenceless to the creatures that came out at night. A little shiver of fright passed through him as he considered his position. Slowly, he began to walk back the way he'd come, following the tracks that had brought him here.

He'd only gone a dozen or so feet when he heard something moving in the forest nearby. He sat bolt upright, his eyes alert and gazing intently into the woods around him. His skin prickled, his eyes watered, his throat contracted with fear.

Then, somewhere out among the trees, a wolf howled.


	12. Chapter 12

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë  
****Chapter Twelve**

Harry simultaneously resisted the urge to run madly away from the sound and to stand still. He knew that he had an exceptionally small time window in which to find his bearings, else he'd be hopelessly lost. But he also knew that there was no way that the wolf didn't know that he was here. Even if it hadn't caught his scent, he'd been making far too much noise, to avoid detection.

So he headed at a gentle jog along the path that he'd been following, his fingers clenched tightly on his sword, his eyes alternating between spotting his own trail and keeping a sharp eye on the surrounding area. The forest seemed to loom over him, every slightest breeze became an enemy, every crunch of debris under foot something creeping up behind him. His heart hammered in his chest so hard that Harry was surprised it didn't just explode.

The wolf howled again, closer this time, and another spasm of fear shot through Harry, but he pushed it away roughly. Hadn't he faced a basilisk after all? Hadn't he faced Voldemort? What was one wolf?

'But it won't just be one wolf, will it?' asked a nasty voice in the back of his head. 'Wolfs hunt in packs.'

Harry pushed the voice away, even though he knew that there was truth in the thought. One wolf, or twenty, it made no difference to his tactics. He had to follow the path, he had to make it back to Anglia, even if he had to cut his way through an army of brilliant yellow eyes and dripping, gleaming teeth. Adrenaline and fear in equal measures flowed through him as he ran.

Then again, he thought, perhaps they're just as afraid of me as I am of them. Maybe they're friendly, just as the lynx had been friendly to him. Just as the shotzovajlle had been.

Had been.

He swung the sword experimentally as he trotted, testing his arm, limbering it just in case he had to fight.

Just in case.

He rounded a thicket of brambles, emerged into a clearing and instantly knew that he had been travelling in the wrong direction. The clearing itself was beautiful, dense foliage and vivid blooms all stained white in the moonlight. But there hadn't been any clearing on the way out. Harry swallowed thickly and tightened the grip on his sword. He must have misjudged a turning and now he had no idea where or how long ago he'd made the mistake.

He was lost.

Fear and panic threatened to overwhelm him, but he fought it down, furrowing his brow as he tried to concentrate beyond the terror that tried to block out rational thought, but it was hard. His body was coursing with energy, making him quiver like a leaf and a frightened little voice at the back of his mind kept piping up.

'You're doomed,' it said. 'Lost, hunted, as good as dead.'

"No," said Harry, answering the voice out loud. "I may be lost and hunted, but I won't give up. So what do I do now?"

Just speaking calmly to himself was enough to quell some of the terror that knotted deep inside him and once he'd gotten beyond the fright, the sensible thing was obvious. He stood no chance of finding his way in the dark. It just wouldn't happen. He'd absolutely no idea what direction the Anglia was and if he continued to walk, he would only get more lost. What's more, with the wolves prowling about, he was only a target wandering blind through the forest.

But he hadn't been travelling that long and he knew he couldn't be too far out of his way. He'd be able to find the in the morning.

He knew he ought to find some form of shelter. In the morning, the wolves would be asleep and he'd be able to find his way back to the Anglia. Or better still, Hedwig will almost certainly come looking for him.

And in that case, he thought, I ought to be obvious to her from the air.

And that left only one logical course of action.

Harry began to climb the nearest tree on the edge of the clearing that seemed broad enough to support his weight. He ignored the howls of the wolves, despite the fact that he was sure they were closing in, focusing instead on finding hand and foot holds to pull himself higher up the height of the large oak.

He was good at climbing trees, he'd done it all the time when he was younger to avoid Dudley, his cousin's friends and Aunt Marge's dogs. And if dogs couldn't climb trees, he didn't see why wolves ought to be able to.

"Sorry boys," whispered Harry to the wolves as he swung up onto a large enough branch to support his weight. "Meat is off the menu."

He climbed a little higher into the tree, until he found a nice fork between two branches where he could perch quietly, watching for the approach of the wolves. He nestled into his spot, finding the most comfortable position to sit and wait.

He didn't have to wait long.

Only a minute or so after he'd perched himself in the tree, a wolf padded into the clearing, sniffing the ground tentatively. Harry could remember thinking that the dog that belonged to Aunt Marge had been extraordinarily large, ugly and vicious but this wolf probably could have eaten Ripper in two bites.

It was at least six feet long and despite standing on all fours, it was at least as tall as Harry himself. Its eyes were enormous golden orbs and its teeth gleamed fiercely as it padded along, despite the dying light.

Harry watched as it sniffed the ground, clearly following Harry's scent, and arrived at the base of the tree. It stood there, staring at the trunk for a few seconds, as though puzzled. Then walked around the base of the tree in a wide arc, still tentatively nosing the long blades of grass. Eventually it returned to the base of the tree and looked straight up.

Harry's bright green eyes met the vivid yellow ones of the wolf.

They sat for a few moments, staring at each other and slowly, deliberately, the wolf bared its teeth and growled.

Harry considered this gesture, his head cocked to one side.

Fine, he thought, if you want to be like that.

He bared his own teeth and growled back.

The wolf looked startled at the sudden mimicry, then Harry was almost certain he saw satisfaction creep into its expression. It turned away from the tree and stepped a few paces away, lifted its head into the air and howled. It was a long, whooping howl, so loud that Harry had to block his ears with his palms and clench his eyes shut fast.

By the time it was done and Harry opened his eyes again, two more wolves were stood in the clearing with the first. Then two more arrived, followed by six more in close succession. Each of these wolves were smaller than the first, by a good amount, but that didn't make them seem any less intimidating, for each had his gleaming yellow eyes and razor sharp white teeth, dripping with saliva.

Soon, eleven wolves were stood beneath his tree, gazing up at him and Harry found himself hoping that he'd been right in his guess that wolves couldn't climb trees. It certainly seemed the case, for they made no effort to climb up and get him. But Harry couldn't be entirely sure that they wouldn't simply wait until he was asleep, or off guard and then some how spring up after him.

Contrary to his worries, the wolves seemed completely unconcerned by his tree and instead pottered around the clearing apparently investigating bushes, trees and other interesting smells. These apparently essential tasksz complete, all of the wolves returned to his tree and lay down in a loose circle around the trunk, clearly intending to sleep.

Harry felt the knot in his stomach grow tighter, his fingers clutching the hilt of Gryffindor's sword tightly, his teeth grating under the pressure of his clenched jaw. He hadn't considered the possibility that the wolves would be quite happy to wait him out. Why didn't they leave?

"What a brilliant idea, Harry," he muttered to himself, his tone dark. "Foist yourself up a tree why don't you? And where are going to go now exactly? Swing away like Tarzan?"

But he realised that his own panic was getting away with him, that he was overreacting. Nothing had changed— the wolves couldn't stay there indefinitely and sooner or later Hedwig would spot him in the tree, he would be obvious enough. And if the worse came to worst, he still had his wand.

No, there was no more to fear now than there had been before. He felt the hammering of his heart in his chest let up slightly, though it was still uncomfortably quick, and nestled backward against the tree, resting the back of his head against the rough bark. He didn't dare close his eyes, in case exhaustion overwhelmed him. He couldn't be sure he wouldn't fall out of the tree, so instead he contented himself with the reassuring feel of the hilt beneath his fingers and the steel resting against his leg.

As the night settled in, the world became pitch black and the wolves were lost to his view. But he knew they were still there from the noises they occasionally made— snuffling at the base of the tree, the silent movements as one padded around, investigating the dark, the quiet yelping noises they made as they dreamed.

Yet he caught the sounds of something else moving in the darkness too. Something in the trees. At first he thought it must be birds, flying down to roost in the tree-tops for the evening, but they drew closer, chattering and whispering as they moved around. No birds Harry had ever encountered possessed the ability to whisper.

Despite the fast approaching noises, Harry couldn't find the energy to feel fear again that night. Instead he merely lifted the sword very slightly and looked in the direction they approached from, his eyes straining in the darkness.

Around the trunk, climbing across the bark on all fours as easily as Harry might walk across a carpeted room, came a tiny creature of no more than seven inches tall, comprised of what appeared to be bark and leaves. Indeed, had it not been moving, Harry would have had an extraordinarily hard time making out the little form at all.

It stopped a respectable distance from Harry, out of range of his sword at least, and glared at him through the darkness.

Oddly enough, Harry knew exactly what it was that he was looking at; a bowtruckle. He'd read about them in his textbook Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Despite the book not being required reading, he'd become very familiar with the entire text after meeting the basilisk. Because who knew what horrific magical creature he'd next come up against.

"Hello Mr. Bowtruckle," said Harry, making a deliberate show of putting his weapon flat on the branch and holding up his hands. "I'm sorry, but I don't have any woodlice, but I promise I'm not here to damage your tree. My sword is for the wolves."

Whether it understood the words, Harry had no idea, but it clearly comprehended his point, for it looked down at the wolves contemptuously. The expression on the little creature's face was so disproportionately severe, Harry couldn't help himself, he giggled. As soon as the laugh escaped him, he shoved his hand over his face, not sure if he might offend or startle the bowtruckle, but it seemed unperturbed and instead turned into the darkness and barked out a series of shrill calls.

The next thing he knew, Harry was surrounded by at least three dozen bowtruckles. Some of them sat on the branches around him, chattering softly to each other. A pair had an impromptu, but good natured wrestling match, each trying to push the other from their branch. More still merely seemed to curl up in crevices on the tree and begin to sleep.

Harry, for his part, smiled. He held no false impressions and knew that the bowtruckles were merely tolerating his appearance in their tree. But he couldn't help but feel the warmth in the pit of his stomach that one feels from company on dark, frightening nights.

Even so, he kept his wand out of sight and a keen eye on those long, sharp fingers.

**A/N: **I'm written up six days ahead of what I'm currently posting, so there's perhaps a chance I'll take one day out next week in order to get the full week ahead again. Also wanted to say, I seriously appreciate every review, even the negative ones. It makes it worthwhile to hear that people enjoy reading this as much as I'm enjoying writing it.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N:** **I figure this is pretty important, so I'm going to take a minute of your time. I've changed the rating of this story from K to T. I don't think it ever really should have been K, but it has been all (bar the first chapter) light hearted fun, to this point. I assume this won't affect the majority of my readership, but if you're worried or offended by moderate violence, please be aware that this chapter and the six that follow it contain darker themes. I think for the most part, it's no more darker or violent than sections of the Harry Potter series becomes. Thanks for letting me waste a moment of your time c:**

* * *

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë  
****Chapter Thirteen**

Dawn arrived without the usual splendour that always accompanied daybreak in Valbone. The slightest trace of mist in the air leached colour from the forest and the air was still and cold. Tiny droplets of dew gathering on the leaves and grass shimmered in the fragile sunlight.

Harry watched the sun rise from his perch in the tree, his brow folded downward slightly, his eyelids heavy with lack of sleep but a soft, intent and ultimately content smile on his lips. He wiped condensation from his glasses with the hem of his dirty shirt and then replaced them on his nose.

The bowtruckles slept around him, their small wooden forms curled up like cats. Though none were within swinging range of his sword and they seemed to sleep with one eye open, they were much closer to him than they had been earlier in the evening.

Hedwig's penetrating call turned his gaze skyward and he watched the snowy owl fall gracefully from the air and effortlessly land neatly on a branch beside him, Sternley borne on her head. The bowtruckles all seemed to awake at once, but despite Hedwig and Sternley's sudden appearance, they seemed more curious than afraid.

"Dear me," said Sternley brightly, from his perch on top of Hedwig's head. "I leave you on your own for five minutes and you find yourself beached in a tree."

"Wolves," explained Harry, indicating the pack still laying at the bottom of the tree. Sternley followed his gesture and frowned.

"No ordinary wolves," said the hat and Harry nodded, for this had confirmed his own suspicions. "Those are goblin oiks. Specifically bred to be somewhere between war dogs and pets."

Harry nodded again, his frown intensifying as he watched one of the sleeping wolves begin to run, clearly dreaming of chasing something. Harry hoped it wasn't dreaming of chasing him.

"Will they have alerted the goblins?"

"No," replied Sternley thoughtfully. "I think they're wild, or at least oiks that have escaped captivity. The goblins wouldn't let them wander around on their own. But they're bred and trained to kill humans all the same."

"So no negotiating then?" asked Harry, with a grim trace of humour to his voice.

Sternley seemed to notice something amiss and fixed Harry with a long discerning stare. When he spoke again, his tone was guarded.

"Are you alright?"

"I don't think so," admitted Harry. "I've just spent all night in a tree, frightened out of my mind."

"It's alright," reassured Sternley, in a soothing voice. "We'll sort it—"

"But that's just the thing," interrupted Harry, his jaw set. "I'm not scared any more. Just before the sun began to rose I realised that this was stupid. Like, I just asked myself 'why am I frightened? Because I'm afraid of dying?' And then I realised that I shouldn't be. Because I'm already dead.

"Until I get out of this forest, I'm dead. And until that time— Well, fear is only going to kill me faster."

Harry turned his gaze on Sternley's concerned expression, upon Hedwig's dark, unfathomable eyes and smiled, just ever so slightly.

"It's alright, really," he said, his green eyes alive in the pale morning light. "Now, I've got a plan to get me out of this tree, but I'm going to need you two to help."

"A plan, eh?" asked Sternley, apparently shelving his concern for the time being. "Well, at least you haven't been waiting on me for once."

Harry took Sternley from Hedwig's head and hung him in the fork of a branch. He looked to his owl, a pleading expression on his face.

"I need you to find me some woodlice and love-lies-bleeding, its that plant with the droopy red flowers. Think you can do that?"

The withering expression Hedwig gave him firmly established the answer to that question. Harry gave her a quick scratch behind the ear and in turn she gave Harry a sharp peck before taking wing in a rush of white feathers, flying straight upward.

"How far am I from the car? Which direction?"

"Two miles? A mile and a half? And you'd need to head north."

Harry nodded softly, using the sun to judge roughly north and gazing out in that direction.

"Are you going to explain your plan?" asked Sternley, sounding a little nervous.

Harry nodded, though was distracted by a little movement beneath him. One of the wolves was waking, stirring ever so slightly and beginning to limber up out of sleep.

"The plan? The plan is I fight."

"Against an entire pack of wolves?"

Harry didn't have to look at the sorting hat to know that he'd adopted an incredulous expression. Regardless, Harry nodded, his brow set in determined lines. He raised the sword slightly again, hefting the weight in his hand.

"I reckon if I can kill the big one quickly, it might just disorganise them enough for me to escape."

"Harry, killing something in anger, it's not the same as killing a trapped rabbit for food. It's not as easy as—"

"As killing a fifty foot snake?" asked Harry, a wry expression on his face.

"That was luck," snapped Sternley, his tones hard. "This isn't the same at all."

"You're right, it's not," replied Harry. "This time I'm going to mean it. This time I'm not going to be afraid and running for my life."

"Harry, there'll be another way," wheedled the hat. "We can find a cleverer way to do this."

"Sometimes it's not about spells and cleverness."

Harry's voice was firm, his mind decided, his will and courage bundled up and ready to fight. He just needed a few things, he needed Hedwig, he needed Sternley.

"I'm going to do this," said Harry. "But I won't stand a chance without you. I need you to help me."

"Of course I'll help," said Sternley. "I just think that there are other options."

"Duly noted. We go as soon as Hedwig gets back. I need her to take you up so you can direct me, warn me, watch my back."

"Of course."

The tones in Sternley's voice sounded dissenting and worried, but Harry ignored them. Won't win everyone over every time, Potter, he told himself.

It only took Hedwig five minutes to return and another five for Harry to explain the plan. She too seemed to object to Harry's idea, but readily agreed to help him in any way she could. Or at least that was how Harry interpreted it.

Finally, he had the final stage of his plan. With a humble and contrite expression he turned to the bowtruckles and held out his meagre offering of woodlice. After a second, they all descended from their respective branches and were greedily devouring them. All save one, who came to sit on Harry's knee, legs crossed and facing the boy.

"I'm really sorry to ask," began Harry. "But I offer you these woodlice in exchange for a branch of your tree."

The bowtruckle seemed to understand and tipped his head to one side as if weighing up the options. Harry waited with baited breath for what seemed like minutes until the little creature eventually nodded its head. Harry allowed the breath to slip between his lips and the bowtruckle leapt up the trunk and indicated a branch, about the size of a cricket bat, just above Harry's head.

Harry nodded in understanding and, very carefully, used the sword to cut the limb away from the trunk. He hefted it experimentally in the other hand to the sword and smiled.

Using the sword, he began to prune the branch and scratch away the bark, exposing the wood grain beneath. When he was done, he took the flowers Hedwig had collected and gently, careful not to waste any, began to crush them into a paste and lather it on to the branch.

"That's very clever," offered Sternley, a little grudgingly. "How did you work that out?"

"I have had all night," replied Harry, though his voice was soft and happy as he worked. He tore a sleeve from his shirt and wrapped it tightly around one end of the stave, forming a handle. "Though I got the idea from potions. He might be an arse, but Snape generally knows what he's talking about."

"Teachers generally do."

"Not all of them," laughed Harry, thinking of Lockheart.

When he was satisfied with his make-shift cudgel, having spun it a couple of times lazily in one hand, Harry plopped Sternley down on Hedwig's head, where he shrunk to owl size once more.

"Fly safe," said Harry, pressing his forehead gently against his owls.

Hedwig crooned softly.

"If this all goes bad," said Harry. "Make your way back to England, Sternley can explain to everyone. Make it sound better than it was and pretend I said something brilliant."

"You'll be fine," said Sternley, in a reassuring tone of voice. "You were right, this is the best plan."

"Of course it isn't. I came up with it." There was something humorous in Harry's voice, despite the impending danger. "I don't have a good track record with plans."

Without waiting for a reply, Harry slipped from the branch and began to climb downward, followed at a healthy distance by the bowtruckles, who seemed genuinely sad that Harry had decided he couldn't live in their tree any longer.

Harry lowered himself to the lower branches of the tree as stealthily as he could. Perched here, he was just out of reach of the wolves, even if they jumped, but had a good view of them. All but one were still sleeping and the one that had roused itself earlier was still walking groggily.

He'd hoped they'd all be asleep, but one was better than all and if he waited any longer, they'd catch his scent and then he'd not stand a chance. He picked out the largest one, slumped at the base of the tree and readied his weapons. Any moment now.

The one wakeful wolf staggered sleepily over to the base of the tree, just below Harry. For a moment, Harry's heart leapt into his throat, for he was sure the wolf couldn't help but notice him. But then the wolf turned, cocked a leg and all hell broke loose.

One moment, the wolf was happy relieving himself against the base of the tree and the next the bowtruckles were among the wolves, screeching indignant battle-cries and their long fingers snatching at canine eyes. The wolves, in turn, were suddenly awake, running around in small circles snapping at the air, each other and their own bodies as dozens of tiny forms swarmed over them.

Harry, realising that this was the best possible chance he was going to have, leapt down, his sword flashing out in the direction of a wolf that came too close. There was a flash of scarlet blood and a pained yelp and it fell away, leaving a clear route north out of the clearing.

All thoughts of battle forced out of his head, he sprinted into the gap, as though the hounds of hell themselves were chasing him. Which, as it happened, wasn't quite as fanciful a notion as he'd have liked.

Howls of anger and yelps of pain followed him out of the clearing, but closer and closing he could hear the crashing of pursuers and the panting of wolves hot on his tail.

"Two behind you!" came Sternley's voice from somewhere above him.

Harry broke out of the sprint and spun, swinging up his stave. The two wolves in pursuit were in mid-air, teeth bared and seeking his throat. But both were caught by the explosion of fire that roared from the end of the stick. The smell of burning fur and scorched flesh reached Harry's nostrils, but he paid it no heed and continued running into the forest.

"There's one looping around ahead," said Sternley. "Go east."

Harry turned to his right, just as another wolf burst out of the undergrowth, missing him by inches. He stumbled away, swinging the sword out as he did. More by luck than judgement, he caught it under the chin, spreading its blood in a wide arc across the forest floor. It made a noise somewhere between a yelp and a gurgle and collapsed to the ground.

Harry paid it no heed and pushed on, Sternley shouting encouragement above him. He was light headed now, with his heart pounding in his ears and his eyes stinging from the combination of sweat and wolf blood that ran in rivulets down his face.

"Further east," cried Sternley, coming in closer. "They've seen off the bowtruckles and are heading straight for the car. They'll beat you there, so you'll have to avoid them. Go up the valley."

"I've gotta—" panted Harry. "I've gotta get back to the car. It's the only way out."

"And you're going to fight another six wolves while you're at it?"

Harry almost vomited at the thought and came to a stop at a tree. He leant against it, panting heavily and retching as the blood, still warm, ran from his face and into his mouth.

"You can only take a minute, there's still a tracking you," said Sternley, taking to the air again. "Head up the sides of the valley."

Harry couldn't figure out why Sternley was telling him to go up, but blood was crashing around his head so much and he was so out of breath that he could barely think, let alone reason the hat's illogics.

So he did as he was told, heading up the side of the valley at a softer jog, knowing that the sprint he'd been using before would do more harm than good. At first he climbed a gentle slope up through woodland paths bathed in an eerie green light, but soon he was scrabbling up scree slopes and over rocks, the forest a distant memory below.

As he looked back once or twice, he caught sight of the wolves following him, loping along at an easy pace, apparently unconcerned by the steep slope. Sternley's plan of heading up seemed to be back-firing, as they could travel over this ground much faster than he could and were quickly catching him up.

"Just a bit further," assured the hat, from above. "Just a little— Watch out!"

The enormous wolf that Harry had seen first sprang from behind a rock and was on Harry before he could react, bowling him over and biting at his neck. Luckily Harry landed on the scree and it collapsed beneath him, sending him sliding down the valley side in a shower of dust and small stones.

The wolf leapt after him, growling and snarling, teeth bared and snapping. Harry flung the stave out and with an enormous bang, the entire thing exploded in an enormous fireball, flinging the wolf away in a plume of smoke and showering Harry with shards of wood that cut his skin. Unbearable pain lanced through his left hand and when Harry looked down, it seemed nothing more than a useless lump of flesh, blood and shards of bone.

He gagged, but forced himself to rise, leaning on his good hand. The wolf, its face horrible torn by the same explosion climbed unsteadily to all fours and regarded Harry with a fearsome expression. Harry knew from its body position that it was going to pounce again, knew that he couldn't beat it with the sword alone, knew that it would attack and kill him, knew that his friends would hear of his death from a talking hat.

He laughed at the thought, though he didn't know why exactly.

Somehow, he still wasn't afraid. As he'd said to Sternley in the tree, he'd accepted that he was already dead. What did it matter if this was how it happened?

"Come on then," he said to the wolf, almost hissing the words as he scowled at the bloodied creature. "Let's go."

However before either of them could move there was a yowl from behind Harry and something flew past him, with all the speed and power of a locomotive.

The lynx hit the wolf like a tonne of bricks, smashing the creature to the ground and the pair of them were lost in a whirlwind of flying paws, flashing teeth and spraying blood.

Harry froze, his sword half raised. He couldn't dare attack, for fear of hitting his defender, but he couldn't run either, he just couldn't.

"Come on Harry," cried Sternley, urging him to move. "It's buying you time, run. For Merlin's sake, there's still two more wolves just behind you, run."

Harry nodded breathlessly, then with a final look at the warring animals, began to run again, cradling his ruined hand to his chest. He staggered his way further up the hill, his chest now slick with his own blood, stumbling and slipping on the stones, not at al-l sure of where he was going, what direction he was travelling, even what was ahead of him. Merely following the sound of Sternley's voice.

So it was a surprise to suddenly find himself inside a narrow cave that jutted back into the mountainside. It wasn't deep and was barely wide enough for him to fit, but it was enough shelter to make Harry feel safe.

He collapsed against one of the walls and slid down it, still clasping his hand to his chest. It seemed to have mostly stopped bleeding now, but he still couldn't bring himself to investigate it. Instead he sat, head slumped as he tried to force some coherence back into his head. Sternley and Hedwig joined him a moment later, the snowy owl's wide wings buffeting him with cool air.

"How's your hand?"

"Bad."

"You don't look like you're bleeding to death. You hurt anywhere else?"

Harry shook his head.

"Some bumps, some grazes, better than I could have hoped for really."

"Use your other sleeve to bandage your hand."

Harry did as he was told, removing his blood soaked shirt and shivering as he tore the fabric away. Carefully he wrapped the dirty white material around his hand, sobbing with pain as he did, pulling it tight to staunch the blood flow.

"It's going to get infected like that," said Sternley. "First thing we need to do when we get back to the car is fix that up."

"When?" asked Harry, snorting despite the pain. "If."

"When," snapped the hat, firmly.

Harry just nodded, then allowed his head to sag again. He spent an indeterminate amount of time there, falling between sleep and wakefulness, with Sternley constantly trying to engage him in conversation and Hedwig fluttering in and out of the cave, clearly keeping watch.

Though in a moment of lucidity, Harry thought that the wolves couldn't have been that far behind him and that their absence probably meant that they too had run off to lick their wounds.

The day had become noticeably dark the next time that Harry had a moment of lucidity and both Hedwig and Sternley were gone. He rose awkwardly, his arm pulled in tight against his body. At some point he'd put his shirt back on, but couldn't remember doing so now.

"You're awake?" came Sternley's voice from the entrance of the cave. It sounded guarded and worried.

"Just about," replied Harry, but felt better than he had all day. His head was aching, his hand hurt to an almost unbearable degree and his skin crawled with how cold he was, but his brain was engaged again.

"You'd better come out."

There was an ominous tone to the hat's voice that Harry didn't like. He lifted the sword from the floor of the cave and staggered toward the entrance. There, Sternley was perched on a rock and Hedwig was sitting on the ground, gently prodding a large brown lump on the ground.

It took Harry a moment to work out just what it was.

He threw himself to his knees next to the lynx, his hands running across the creature's side, feeling the ugly wounds up and down its body. The enormous rents in its skin, the blood matted fur, the horrible gouge across its face. For its part, the lynx managed to lift its head and examine Harry, then it dropped again, as though exhausted. its side heaved with the effort of breathing.

Harry reached for his wand.

"Harry," snapped Sternley. "Don't be stupid."

"He's dying," said Harry, raising it above the lynx.

"And what are you going to do? Episkey it better? You can't help him, all you can do is doom yourself."

Harry froze, wand outstretched and then swallowed the lump in his throat.

"Teach me," he said and silence fell over them for what seemed like hours. "TEACH ME!"

"I can't. You know I can't"

Harry felt his eyes burn and his breathing become ragged.

"Then we've got to get him back to the car, we've got to— How far is it?"

"Miles and miles."

Harry wept tears of grief and frustration.

"HELP ME," he roared at the hat. "STOP JUST SITTING THERE AND DO SOMETHING."

"Harry," said Sternley, his voice soft.

Harry ignored him and moved around to the head of the lynx, lifted it awkwardly into his lap and sat there, cradling it. His good arm wrapped around its neck, the other resting against its torn muzzle. Slowly, it looked up at him and then licked his ruined hand with its enormous, rough tongue, lapping the dried blood away.

"He fought them," said Sternley. "Hedwig has been watching him, he fought off all three wolves."

Harry bit back the angry retort and leant his head down to nuzzle the neck of the great beast. The tears fell hot and heavy against the creature's soft fur. He should have been there. He should have stayed to help.

And yet he knew that there would have only been one outcome to that.

"Thank you," he whispered into the creature's neck. "I'm so sorry."

"Mrow," said the lynx and licked Harry's hand a final time.

Then it lay still.


	14. Chapter 14

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë  
****Chapter Fourteen**

It was nearly nightfall by the time Harry descended from the ridge and the dying rays of the sun seemed to set the forest of Valbonë ablaze with orange light. Harry's sword hung limply in one hand, while he held the other tight to his chest. His shirt was now more red than white, his trousers ripped in a dozen places, his glasses were more bent than ever before and his entire body ached.

He had pulled the lynx's body inside the cave and sealed it, stone by stone. It was the closest to a proper funeral he could give his friend. When he had finished, Harry had stared at the pile of rocks with a forlorn feeling. There was nothing at all to commemorate the loss of such a brave creature. He knew that to anyone else's eyes, it would just be a pile of rocks.

Perhaps because he would remember, that would make it alright. Somehow.

He had fallen twice while carrying the heavy stones across the scree slopes and now he sported a dozen bruises and grazes in addition to his maimed hand. Strangely enough, none of these injuries hurt even the slightest. Either he was too exhausted with the fighting, or too exhausted with the grief. Too exhausted to feel pain, too exhausted to feel sad, too exhausted to feel anything.

So wordless, expressionless and emotionless, Harry walked down the side of the valley and returned to the car. The incredible views, the windswept trees, the gentle twitter of birdsong, all these things were lost on Harry, who had no time or thought for anything save sleep.

There was no evidence at all that the wolves had ever reached beyond the wards, despite the notable footprints that seemed to encircle them. Harry thought this ought to worry him, or gladden him, but he couldn't quite find the energy required.

Hedwig and Sternley joined him as he clambered into the car, almost falling into the back seat in his eagerness to be asleep, to escape.

"You need to clean up your hand," said Sternley, even as Harry closed his eyes. "Need to fix it up. You've already waited too long."

Harry thought about arguing, was sorely tempted to do so, but in the end, just couldn't find the energy to disagree. Instead he sat up, produced his wand and held it over his ruined hand.

"Scorgify," he said, without even thinking.

A wave of pain so intense that it almost made him vomit washed through him. So painful was it, that he actually screamed, something he hadn't even done when the injury had happened.

Sternley shook his head ruefully.

"That's one way to do it," he offered. Harry just clutched his hand tightly to him, his eyes brimming with tears of pain.

In some strange way however, Harry was grateful for the pain, because it gave him a legitimate excuse to have tears in his eyes.

Crying had always been something Harry had rejected and spurned, something he saw as babyish and embarrassing. He hadn't cried at the Dursley's, not since he was too young to know better and he certainly hadn't cried during his two years at Hogwarts, despite the terrible things that had happened.

But then again he supposed, the same stubborn refusal to display emotion was probably what led to them overwhelming him and ended up with such a spectacular break. Regardless of these thoughts, Harry brushed the tears away with his hand and then examined it carefully.

The wound was clean, there was no doubt about that, not a speck of blood or dirt remained anywhere. Now, for the first time, Harry could see the little shades of white deep inside the wounds— the bones of his hand. He poked at it with a macabre curiosity, interested to see his inner workings so exposed, but Sternley reprimanded him sharply.

"Don't touch it now," he snapped. "You'll get it dirty again."

Harry nodded and lifted his wand above his hand, then paused, frowned and stopped. Surely his meagre healing spell couldn't help with something as delicate as his hand if it couldn't have helped the lynx.

"Good," said Sternley, as though reading his thoughts. "You're beginning to think. "There's that dittany in the boot that you collected a couple of days ago. Brew that in some water over a fire and then soak your hand in it. It'll begin the healing process that we can finish off with spellwork tomorrow."

Harry nodded and clambered back out of the car, feeling more exhausted than he'd ever felt before in his life. He collected the dittany from the boot, carefully shredded it with the sword and added it to some water in his make-shift hubcap pan. Then he collected some firewood from the footwell of the passenger seat, where he'd been keeping it dry and began to build a fire, just as Sternley had shown him. Stacking the logs neatly and in exactly the right formation to avoid as much smoke as possible.

While the dittany stewed, Harry took a large gulp of water from the can. Partially because he was thirsty, but also because the sensation of cold water in his stomach made him feel more alert and awake.

Sternley watched the dittany, while Harry slumped against the car, sitting on the ground with his head leaning against the metal bodywork. When it had stewed to just the right consistency, Sternley called him over and Harry placed the saucepan on the floor beside him, to let it cool. Eventually he was able to sink his hand into the bowl.

Despite still bubbling slightly from the fire, the dittany was cool and soothed the ache in his hand. Harry lay back against the car once more, enjoying the sensation of tension falling from his body in waves. Above him the sky was practically ablaze with stars and with colours that Harry couldn't have imagined. From what he could remember from his astronomy classes, he thought he could make out Mars in the inky night. He thought about what the centaurs had said, nearly two and a half years ago.

Mars was bright tonight.

He paused for a minute to remember what that could mean. He'd not yet studied divination, but he'd investigated it after the events of that night in his first year and he vaguely remembered something about Mars being an indicator of war, violence and bloodshed.

Well it'd certainly got its fill today.

But it wasn't just Mars that Harry could see, but other shapes in the night sky. Constellations he only knew from faint drawings in textbooks. Constellations so completely different to those he'd known from the muggle world. And in the centre of it all, a lone shooting star falling across the sky, streaking the darkness.

Harry couldn't remember later when exactly he'd fallen asleep, but the next thing he knew sunlight was gushing into the forest and forcing his eyes open. His trousers were cold and wet where he'd spilled the dittany during the night and the rest had seeped away into the ground. He lifted his hand, joints still stiff with sleep and inspected it closely

The wound looked far uglier than it had last night. Where there had been clean cuts, there was now ragged strands of flesh. Where he had seen bone jutting into plain sight, there was discoloured, bright purple flesh.

"It's healing," said Sternley from above him. Harry looked up and found the sorting hat sitting on the top of the car. "It'll look weird because the dittany is forcing your natural healing to act more swiftly. We'll have to help it out a little today though."

"Can it wait until after breakfast?" asked Harry, his stomach rumbling slightly.

"Of course," replied Sternley, nodding his satisfaction.

Harry rose from the ground and brushed dirt from his trousers. He could have probably cleaned them with magic, but he wasn't particularly concerned with appearance. Though, from the state of his shirt, sooner or later he was going to have to ask Sternley about laundry charms. He hefted Gryffindor's sword from the ground where he'd dropped it last night and took it with him.

It was weird, he thought as he walked in the direction of the river, that after two whole years in the wizarding world, he still knew almost nothing about magic. Sure he could cast a levitation charm with the best of them and he knew more than the healthy number of jinxes and hexes — par for course when you were friends with the Weasley twins — but he didn't know a good charm for cleaning his clothes. Or cooking anything. Or purifying water. Or essentially any of the things that people might need to survive in the real world.

But the more he thought about it, the more he realised that Hogwarts wasn't about preparing witches and wizards for the real world. His charms lessons wouldn't help him any more in this world than geometry would have helped him in the muggle. Perhaps that was simply the way of the world.

But that didn't make Harry feel much better. He'd never really known before Valbonë, before Sternley, just how ignorant he was. Just how lazy he'd been in learning important things about the wizarding world. What did he know of wizarding culture? He hadn't known what Lucius Malfoy had done for a living. He hadn't really understood just what it was that Arthur Weasley did. Didn't even know what his own father had done.

Why hadn't he ever asked?

He quite regularly thought of a dozen questions he'd like to ask someone, now that he was alone in the forest with nobody to answer. But not one of them had ever occurred to him when there were knowledgeable people around. Of course there was Sternley, but despite having sorted them, he didn't really know people. Or didn't like to talk about them, at least. Regardless, magical theory he was an expert on, the lives and culture of the wizarding world, not so much.

But Dumbledore had known his parents, as had McGonagall, not to mention Snape, who must have known them.

Although the idea of asking Snape anything was akin to madness, at least as far as Harry was concerned.

Harry marched right up to the river, ignoring the shtojzovalle who played their incomprehensible games in the water nearby. After his last conversation with them Harry had no desire to talk to them. Especially considering recent events. It was probably better for their sakes that they didn't have anything else to do with him.

He walked straight into the river, down stream from the sylphs, still wearing his clothes and shoes. He watched as the blood soaked into his shirt and trousers stained the water around him red and then floated down stream. Even the shtojzovalle stopped their games to watch him as he submerged himself beneath the water.

Beneath the water, it was cool and quiet. Only the rush of water passing his head and the slight tingle of water against the pebbles on the shore broke the silence. He stayed submerged beneath the water for a whole minute, before an ardent desire for breath forced him to resurface.

When he did, he realised that the shtojzovalle were standing all around him.

He sighed, then adopted a patient, long suffering smile.

"Do you long for death?" asked one of the shtojzovalle abruptly, completely catching Harry off guard.

Was that a threat?

"Err, no," he replied, awkwardly.

"Really?" asked the shtojzovalle, seeming rather disappointed by his answer. "What a shame."

"Ought I to?"

"You have lost a lot for one so young," said another sylph. "There is more pain yet to come. I would wish it over."

"Well, you aren't me," snapped Harry, anger overwhelming him suddenly, though he couldn't have said why. "So why don't you go away and feel sorry for yourselves somewhere else?"

"Mars was bright last night," said the first shtojzovalle.

"Yeah?" snarled Harry, his hands tightened into fists at his sides. "Well you won't be seeing it for a while once I've shoved your—"

He broke off as it became apparently that none of the shtojzovalle were paying any attention to him. Instead they had all turned to look up stream, their eyes wide. Harry followed their gaze and saw something that made his heart lurch with fear. An enormous wolf, its face still mangled from Harry's ritual fire, stood on a small rise, staring at them in the water with a fierce expression.

Harry stood his ground, his bright green eyes locked to the wolf's own piercing yellow ones. For minutes they stared and for Harry, there was nothing else in the world but the oik. It had hunted and attacked him, it had killed his friend, it had ruined his hand. Harry knew, as keenly as he'd ever known anything, that their fight wasn't over. Couldn't be over. Not until every last drop of their bad blood fell to the ground.

Then without breaking the stare, Harry lifted the sword straight up into the air and smiled. The wolf gave him a loathing look, then with a single, torturous howl, it disappeared into the depths of the forest.

Harry lowered the sword gently and looked down to see the shtojzovalle gone. Instead, all he saw was his own distorted reflection in the water — still half covered with blood, fully soaked and with a fearsome expression on his face. All scowl and feral grin.

It faded as he considered what had clearly been a challenge. He would have to fight the oik and he needed Sternley's help to do so. In that moment, then and there, Harry resolved that he would not leave Valbonë until the oik was in the ground and he was wearing its hide as a cape.

They had unfinished business, he and the big, bad wolf.

And after all, Mars was bright and who was he to flaunt the skies?


	15. Chapter 15

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë  
Chapter 15 **

Harry returned to the car with his face and his heart set. Though, he couldn't help but feel that his dramatic return was slightly undermined by the fact that his clothes were soaked through and his sodden hair let water run down his forehead and into his eyes, forcing him to blink comically.

Sternley, for his part, seemed to find the funny side to his appearance, rather than taking heed of Harry's expression, for he began to laugh uproariously at the sight of him.

"This cannot be good," he said, still laughing as he watched Harry pull a handful of dittany from the boot of the car. "What on earth happened to you?"

"Mars," replied Harry, with deliberate evasiveness, feeling more than a little embarrassed by Sternley's raucous laughter. He began methodically reducing the dittany to fine shreds on the blade of his sword, allowing the sliced plant to fall on the bonnet of the Anglia. "I need you to teach me to fix my hand."

"Well some more dittany is a good place to start," observed Sternley. "Then I'll have to teach you a few more complex healing charms than Higgin's."

"Higgin's?" asked Harry without looking up from his work.

"Higgn's Minor Malady Charm," replied Sternley, then when Harry glanced up, his face contorted in annoyance, the hat clarified. "Episkey."

"Ah."

Harry returned to his chopping. He'd found that his skill with the sword, particularly in fine work like this, had improved tremendously since arriving in Valbonë. He doubted he could have produced better work with his usual silver potions knife. Sternley watched him a while, becoming more and more restless until he couldn't hold it in any more.

"You've got enough dittany there for your hand twice over."

"I know. It's not for my hand."

Harry finished cutting the dittany and renewed the transfiguration on the hubcap, which had been gradually losing its shape in the days that Harry had been using it. Sternley's teaching meant that the process was much more fluid and refined than it had been only a few days ago. Harry barely glanced at the perfect saucepan that he began dropping the diced dittany into, but Sternley on the other hand, let out a little chuckle.

"That was really impressive Harry."

"Thanks," replied Harry, his tone completely impassive.

Sternley stared at him appraisingly for a long while, then suddenly burst, his tone simultaneously concerned and annoyed.

"Would you tell me just what it is that's going on? And why you're preparing so much damn dittany? What's gotten into you?"

Harry gave the hat a level look.

"War," he said simply, and began to top up the saucepan with water.

Silence reigned for a few minutes, because Sternley seemed rather taken aback and was unable to speak for a moment. When he did his tone was confused.

"You've lost me," admitted the sorting hat.

"That is the answer to all three of your questions," Harry said with a shrug. "I'm going to hunt down and kill all of those wolves."

With that said, Harry began to describe the series of events that had unfolded at the river, his observations of Mars and his certainty at the coming battle. Sternley listened passively, nodding at the appropriate moments and when Harry had finished, the hat sighed.

"I had expected as much," he said, in a resigned sort of voice. "Oiks don't forgive easily, but I'd hoped to have at least a few more days to prepare for it. You'll have to give me a while to think this over."

With that said, he promptly fell silent and perfectly still. Harry poked him once, got no response, then decided to get on with preparing the dittany. His hand was once more aching severely.

He crouched down around the remains of his fire the previous evening and crushed out the lumps of carbon with the hilt of his sword. The blackened logs crumbed into nothing, but when flattened, provided a useful base for his new fire, which he carefully built.

With the fire lit, Harry left the dittany to stew, knowing it would take longer than it had last night, since there was more in the pan. He looked up at Sternley, who hadn't spoken a word during the entire process, wondering if the hat had finished mulling the situation. On the car sat the sorting hat, completely motionless, as though it were nothing but old wizarding headgear.

Harry shrugged, produced his wand and began to experiment with the Higgin's Charm. He found relatively quickly that using Sternley's concept of rolling mutations and a fair amount of transfiguration allowed him to knit the flesh of his hand back together. It wasn't perfect; thick ribbons of scar ran across the flesh and it was stiff to the point of being unusable, but it wasn't gaping any more.

Despite these successes, Sternley was still ominously still, so Harry removed his shirt and began to clean it. His first cleaning charm barely seemed to make a dent in the blood soaked into it, but with concentration and persistence, he managed to get it looking vaguely white again. Unfortunately, one sleeve had been blown to pieces by his makeshift fire stick and his other was beyond his limited ability to clean.

So instead of a shirt, it was really more of a vest. Luckily he'd had the sense to leave his robes neatly packed into the boot of the car, which meant that he'd have something to wear in the evenings and if it got any colder.

This little bit of house-keeping done, Harry checked on the dittany and finding it done, poured half into the empty petrol can. The other half, he allowed to cool.

While waiting for the dittany, Harry made a little tour of the perimeter. He spent a few minutes checking on the wards and, having found a number of slight issues with the weather protection staves, made a number of small adjustments. He also decided to erect a new set of perimeter wards that would warn him to approaching wildlife.

He still wasn't entirely sure if the wolves could pass through the existing wards — the lynx certainly had been able to, but Harry had wanted it to — but he decided it was better safe than sorry. He didn't want to suddenly find himself sharing his camp with a pack of wolves. Especially not goblin oiks.

When he returned to the pot, the dittany was cool enough for him to begin to soak his hand in it. The sensations he experienced this time were far different to the cool, tingling sensations. Though no less enjoyable. This time the solution was warm against his skin and made his hand throb pleasantly with each heartbeat. He thought it might be the age of the dittany that produced the change in sensation, though perhaps it was the nature of the wound that had altered.

Perhaps it was just a trick of his imagination but he thought he could see the scarring on his hand begin to return to something more akin to his normal skin tone. Certainly as the liquid soaked into his hand, it felt less cramped, less stiff and more normal. He waggled his fingers experimentally and was pleased to discover that they had an awful lot more flexibility in them than they had earlier.

"There's no point in soaking it any longer now," said Sternley abruptly, making Harry jump. "You won't see any more benefits from dittany in that wound."

Harry rose and turned, allowing the strewed dittany to drip from his fingers.

"I thought you might have died," said Harry, his face breaking into a grin, despite realising how lonely it had been knowing he had nobody to talk to. "So where do we go from here?"

"To war," said Sternley, as though this were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Is that your master plan?" asked Harry, with a wry chuckle.

"I've had a long think about it," continued Sternley, as though Harry had never spoken "The oiks aren't going to forgive you for killing so many of them. They're going to come looking for you sooner or later and you can't stay within the wards indefinitely. Best form of defence is attack and best form of attack is defence, I always say."

Harry nodded thoughtfully, as though this had actually meant something. He'd long ago decided that humouring the hat in situations like these was a far better tactic than questioning his logic. As knowledgeable and wise as Sternley undoubtedly was, he quite often got caught up in the excitement of the situation. Harry knew that pointing this out embarrassed his friend and he wasn't keen to upset the hat at this particular moment in time.

"So where do we start?" asked Harry, nudging the conversation in the right direction.

Sternley's answering smile was so tremendously creepy that Harry couldn't resist the shudder that ran up his spine.

"Did I ever tell you, that I'm fond of traps?" asked the hat, his very words seeming to drip with anticipation.

Harry thought of the hours of lectures he'd received about the different types of trap that Sternley knew how to make and which he favoured for particular situations. Indeed even Harry, who'd known absolutely nothing about traps before arriving in Valbonë, now knew the best ways to trap a dozen different animals.

"I think you might have mentioned it," said Harry with a wry grin.

"Well, I think we ought to answer the age old question, don't you?"

"What age old question?"

"'Who is the better strategist; the wolf or the hat?'"

"Is that really an age old question?"

"Yes, it is," said Sternley, with a tone of voice so severe that Harry didn't dare argue with him. "Now, remember that tree that fell just outside the wards during the thunderstorm? Go and bring it here. We have weapons to make."


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: **Unless something drastically changes, no update tomorrow. Sorry.

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë  
****Chapter Sixteen**

Sternley's battle plans turned out to be both complex and confusing. Indeed, they were so intricate that Harry couldn't ever manage to remember half of them without losing details. However, according to the hat, this was actually an advantage.

"After all," he said. "How will the enemy have any idea what's going on if you don't?"

Harry couldn't quite see the logic in this and said so.

"Logic schmogic," replied the hat, dismissing his concerns. "Now make sure you're tying that tightly."

Harry paused and looked down at the large wooden stake he was holding in one hand. With the other he'd been wrapping some strong vines around it and only just now noticed that he'd snagged it four lengths ago. With a sigh he unwrapped it to the error and then began to re-wind it.

It wasn't just been wooden stakes and traps that Sternley and Harry had prepared. Under Sternley's watchful eye he'd produced some better quality fire-sticks than the one he'd managed in the tree. Sternley assured him that the fact that the wood had come from a tree cut down by lightning would enhance the stability and power of the ritual magic.

As well as these, Harry had also been putting his newly learned enchanting abilities to the test. Sternley had insisted that he try his hand at turning a number of pebbles into mini-probolators, despite Harry's objections.

"Didn't you say that they had a nasty habit of exploding in one's face?" asked Harry, staring down at the pebble he was supposed to be enchanting with a worried expression.

"For Merlin's sake, Harry," said Sternley, with a long suffering tone to his voice. "I promise it's not going to explode in your face. I must have explained the theory ten times to you already."

"Yeah," said Harry, still not entirely convinced. "I don't suppose you could just explain it one more time?"

Sternley sighed wearily then sat very still for a long moment.

"Okay, fine," he said eventually. "You are going to perform what is known as a double-artifice. This essentially consists of artificing the stone as normal, to perform magic and applying the normal binds. After this, you will artifice the stone again, convincing it that it is completely magically inert. To this you apply the normal binds and tie them to a Dunn bind."

"That's the one—" began Harry and then frowned. "The one that we're using for the car's invisibility booster, right?"

"Correct, it is a bind that can kill any other binds it's combined with, provided it is given the correct input."

"And then I apply the probolator's charms and because the pebble cannot perform magic, it won't explode in my face, right?" continued Harry. "And then I bind the charms properly and when it's all finished, I can activate the Dunn bind and because the charms are harnessed by the other binds, it'll be a fully working probolator?"

"Correct," said Sternley, apparently pleased that Harry had finally got it into his head. "The technique is called 'Pulling the Tablecloth'."

"But you also said that Dunn binds are dangerous to use, because you couldn't be sure how the spell interactions will undermine your double-artifice."

Sternley seemed rather taken aback, whether because his student had actually been paying attention or because he was offended that Harry was insinuating he may not have accounted for this possibility, Harry wasn't sure.

"Yes, normally that'd be true," admitted Sternley. "But in this case, I do know the spell interactions and you'll be fine."

"How?" asked Harry, stubbornly.

"Because I once spent a delightful week watching Dexter Fortescue repeatedly blow his fingers off experimenting with this very idea," said Sternley, his voice wistful. He caught the unasked question in Harry's curious gaze. "He used to take naps in his office and was a dreadful snorer."

"You're very petty, Sternley," said Harry, reproachfully.

"It is one of my few vices," replied the hat.

In the end, Harry ended up creating half a dozen mini-probolators with Sternley's technique. He also created a number of long, thin javelins, an idea all of Harry's own, that used the spells he'd been learning to fix the car that would make them fly straighter, swifter and further than anything he could throw himself. Even Sternley had been impressed by Harry's creativity when it came to these.

As well as these, there were the traps — almost two dozen of various shapes, sizes and purposes. All in all, Harry felt as though he'd created quite the small arsenal and Sternley seemed rather impressed with his own brilliance, as well as Harry's handiwork.

"Those oiks won't know what hit them," he stated confidently and Harry had to agree.

They'd spent almost the entire day preparing the weapons, so Sternley told Harry in no uncertain terms that the campaign would have to start in the morning. So before the sun set, Harry took one of the smaller traps they'd created out into the forest and set it across a game trail.

He'd not found the time or inclination to catch anything since the incident the day before, but the constant eating of nettles and the injuries he'd sustained had left him with a deep seeded hunger that wasn't going to be overcome by leafy greens.

The evening air was cool, despite the day's earlier muggy heat and Harry enjoyed the change in temperature. The breeze rustled through the leaves on the trees and carried the slightest hint of perfume from the blossoms in bloom around him.

Harry found the perfect place for his trap, where the trail crossed the root of an enormous oak, and spent a few minutes setting it up. He was just in the process of bending back a low hanging branch when a bowtruckle appeared in the tree above. Harry couldn't honestly have said whether it was one of those that had helped him fight the oiks yesterday, but it seemed happy enough to see him, before it scampered back into the tree.

He was glad to see that they held no grudge against him for involving them in his fight and was happy that they knew about the existence of the trap. The last thing he wanted to do was unnecessarily hurt one of his little friends, especially after what had happened to the lynx.

As he headed back to the Anglia, the sun began to dip below the forest canopy. Beams of sunlight gleamed through the upper most branches and dappled the forest floor. Despite the events of the last few days, despite the slight ache in his left hand and the severe one in his heart, Harry couldn't help but find it beautiful.

He arrived back at the Anglia and set aside a couple of plants he'd discovered while walking through the forest. In only the short time he'd been in the forest, it had become second nature to Harry to constantly assess the plants he passed for their potential use and take the ones that he recognised as important.

He'd ended up with quite a collection: from plants that fought infection to ones that were deliciously spicy. From flowers that could be crushed to produce an animal repelling sap to some bitter herbs that could be used as an ingredient in ritual magic to produce a bright blue flame.

If nothing else, he was beginning to see what Sprout and Neville saw in Herbology and what Snape must see in potion making. The interactions and combinations of these simple ingredients was simultaneously fascinating and extraordinarily useful.

"We need to take another look at your hand," remarked Sternley, as Harry came to sit in his now customary spot, his back to the driver's side wheel.

Harry nodded his agreement and held it up to the light. He hadn't done anything with it since his last round of dittany and despite the thick bands of paler tissue that still covered the surface, it had actually vastly improved. Where it had been almost useless a day ago, Harry was now able to use it to hold things, although his fingers were still exceptionally stiff.

"It's looking much better," said the hat, unknowingly agreeing with Harry's own assessment. "But it's going to retain that scar tissue if you leave it like that much longer. I'll teach you a charm to fix it."

Harry nodded, a little relieved that his hand wasn't going to be quite so ugly for the rest of his life. Not to mention that he was a little hopeful that he might regain full use of it. Though he knew it was a childish concern, he needed two hands for Quidditch.

"We'll do a rolling mutation, starting with the Higgin's charm and move into a Trillet variation of the scar erasing charm," said Sternley, slipping into what Harry had named his 'professor' voice. "The scars have a physical cause, so it shouldn't be too difficult to remove. Dark Magic, like the scar on your forehead, leaves traces that are near impossible to erase."

Harry nodded and lifted his good hand to rub at the scar he'd had as long as he could remember. He couldn't imagine not having it, it had always been such an important part of his identity, even before he'd known that it was where Voldemort had cursed him. Even at the Dursley's it had been proof that once things hadn't been so bad, that he'd once had parents of his own. He wondered if perhaps the scars on his hand might be just as significant.

Sternley seemed to follow his thought process and smiled.

"Some scars are important to who we are," said the hat, kindly. "But some are debilitating and some are just ugly. You shouldn't feel bad about removing them."

Harry nodded wordlessly and produced his wand.

"Begin by casting the Higgin's charm, but try to find the edges of the scar and pull them inward," instructed Sternley. "The two spells are similar enough that they should fall into each other fairly easily. Once you find the resonation of the scar erasing charm, pucker the edges inward slightly, that's the Trillet variation. It'll mean that it'll be less vulnerable to opening afterwards."

Sternley's rolling mutation technique had been revolutionary in Harry's learning and retention of spells and this new healing charm was no exception. It only took him three quarters of an hour to master the spell and erase the scars on his hand; all but one.

This last scar, a thick ribbon of pink tissue which neatly bisected the palm of his hand, he deliberately left as a permanent reminder of the price paid for his life. He thought it only fair; his mother's sacrifice had left a mark on his skin and so the lynx's sacrifice now also had its own mark. He'd wear both of them with pride, knowing that he had been loved and protected by both.

Sternley seemed to understand Harry's thought process and made no comment about the scar.

They sat together in the last rays of sunlight and watched the day succumb to night in quiet companionship. The stars in the sky above were even brighter than they had been the night before. Mars gleamed among them, staining its section of the sky red. Though neither of the pair said a word, Harry knew that he and Sternley were both thinking the same thing. Worrying about what the coming day would bring.

For tomorrow there would be war.


	17. Chapter 17

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë  
****Chapter Seventeen**

Harry arose before the dawn, barely having slept at all. Despite his protesting joints and bleary eyes, his body was alive with a nervous energy. It suffused every inch of him, causing his hands to shake and his heart to race in his chest. He couldn't remember ever having felt so tense, so excited, so worried.

The forest was illuminated by the half light that always preceded sunrise and was perfectly still. In the absence of a breeze, the leaves made no sound and the branches hung leaden. It was as though the entire world was holding its breath in anticipation of what was to come.

In silence, making no noise save controlled whispers of fabric upon fabric and the gentle clatter of wood upon wood, Harry and Sternley crept out into the dark. Tied to his his back were the javelins they had created, his robes slung from one shoulder to opposite hip as a rope, holding them in place. At his waist was Gryffindor's sword, carefully tucked into his belt. His hands were full with the components of the first half dozen traps he was to errect.

He ventured no further than a few score paces from the Anglia before he paused to set the first trap. He and Sternley had discussed the best tactics for laying these the night before and so Harry was able to identify the best spots immediately. He laid his first, a dead-fall spear trap, between two trees he identified as a likely approach route. Another he planted across a sizeable game trail, knowing that the wolves would almost certainly follow the paths of least resistance.

Harry continued for much of the morning, setting his traps across game trails, between trees and across the paths that Harry walked most often, where his scent would lie strongest. He completely circled the car with these defences, providing a loose ring of protection. By the time he'd finished, the sun was just rising above the tops of the trees, flooding the forest with rich summer sunlight and encouraging the song birds of the tree tops to twitter noisily.

Heedless of the changes in the forest, Harry collected a fresh batch of traps and set them up further from the car. These he clustered tightly together, following the main pathway he used to walk to and from the Anglia toward the river. When he was finished, every few feet along this trail there were deadly traps of every type. After he and Sternley had spent a few minutes checking their handiwork, they then returned to the lone trap Harry had set last night.

Harry could see from a distance that the trap had been sprung, but the foliage thrown into the air by the swinging branch had obscured the kill. It wasn't until Harry rounded a tree and came face to face with the trap that he realised exactly what it was that he'd caught. Despite himself and the cool calm he'd held all morning, he gave a little gasp of dismay. For impaled by the stake and, mercifully, dead, was a small deer.

The expression of surprise, permanently etched into the foal's face was more than enough to give Harry pause. He just stared at it for a long while, frozen with shock at just how effective his trap had proven. Horrified at how he'd snatched the life of an innocent creature. Somehow this was much worse than killing rabbits.

"Harry," came the smooth, soft voice of Sternley. Harry couldn't tell whether the hat on his head was actually speaking, or just thinking. "This is the way it has to be Harry. I'm sorry."

Harry nodded and suddenly found himself swallowing back bile. Though it wasn't the dead creature itself that made him feel so sick, but instead it was the realisation that he could still cope with it. The old Harry never could have. He gently prised the spike from the creature's abdomen and dismantled the trap.

Harry bundled the creature gently into his arms and carried it back to the Anglia. Then he walked out to his avenue of traps, lifted his sword and gently cut his palm.

It was strange, thought Harry as he walked to the first trap and allowed some of his blood to spill on to the stakes, that the cut from the sword had barely hurt at all. Just a little sting, barely worse than a paper cut.

He walked from trap to trap, allowing a few drops of his blood to fall on each and to form a criss-crossing, confusing path between. Sternley, and Harry, hoped that the trail of blood would both distract the wolves and conceal Harry's own scent. Whether it would work on Goblin oiks or not, neither of them could be sure. But both thought it well worth the price of a few drops of blood.

Harry returned to the car once more and sat in the glorious sunshine, his eyes closed against the bright light that warmed the skin of his face and arms. After he'd washed the cut in the stewed dittany and used magic to repair the cut on his hand, which proved easier this time than the first, the three of them sat in silence. Hedwig seemed quite content to bask in the sunlight and neither he nor Sternley had anything pressingly urgent to discuss, despite the fight looming in the near future. They'd discussed the plans a thousand times and now all either wanted was a chance to think and reflect.

Harry's mind was full of Hogwarts. Despite fleeing the castle in such a spectacular manner, Harry knew in his heart of hearts that Hogwarts was every inch his home. Only now did he realise just quite how much he missed. But of course it wasn't just the castle itself that he missed, as much as the people. His friends.

From lazy afternoons playing Quidditch beside the lake with the Weasleys, to quiet evenings studying in the Gryffindor common room with Hermione. Not to mention conversations with the Headmaster in his office or tea at Hagrid's. Harry's heart soared at the thought of Hagrid. The Keeper of Keys would have loved Valbonë, would have known exactly how to deal with these oiks, would have been able to save the lynx.

He found himself wondering how Ron or Hermione might have coped with this. Could they have done better than he had? Hermione was far cleverer, but Harry thought she might have been more intimidated than he, less ready to fight. And Ron, Harry smiled at the thought of his best friend. Ron was brave and bigger than he was. He might well have done better in a fight than he would. But would he have coped as well with the magic? Probably not, thought Harry, feeling a little bad for thinking so.

For the first time in two years it occurred to him how well each of the three friends suited and complemented each other. Hermione with her books and cleverness, Ron with his jokes and faultless loyalty. And he, what did he contribute? Heroics? Daring? Perhaps he was just the glue that held the other two together. Whatever, he just wished he had them with him now.

Harry forced memories of his friends out of his head and turned to Sternley.

"Anything you regret, Sternley?" asked Harry.

"Not taking the chance to see Helga in the bath," replied the hat in a distant tone, as though lost in through. "What a woman."

Harry's face burned hot and he didn't press the question any further.

Hedwig returned only a few minutes later and Harry promptly dropped Sternley on her head, so he could act as a translator. The snowy owl had spent much of the morning tracking down the wolf pack and had apparently found them sleeping in the shade of a large elm a little more than two miles away.

Harry rose from his spot on the ground and once more collected his weapons. This time he added the probolators to his haul of creations, carefully nestling them in his pockets. He gave Hedwig one final stroke and she took to the skies, fluttering above to keep watch. Harry glanced around at his camp and smiled slightly, if only to calm the jittery nervousness that overwhelmed him suddenly.

Everything was as well prepared as it was going to be, he thought, and then crept out into the forest.

He followed Hedwig, careful to avoid his own traps and she guided him toward the wolf pack, the owl flying from branch to branch in order to act as a waypoint. Harry smiled every time he caught sight of her, the sorting hat perched jauntily on one side of her head.

Harry could tell when they were close to the pack, for Hedwig began to swoop to the ground each time she left the branch. It was part of their previously agreed upon signals. This meant that Harry had to be extra careful and spent a great deal of time moving from cover to cover as silently as he could.

Sooner than he would have liked, he was in sight of the elm and could just about make out the indistinct shapes of nine wolves at the base of the tree. He'd thought he'd remembered dispatching more in their first encounter, but perhaps he'd been over optimistic, or the wounds hadn't been as serious as he'd thought.

Regardless, this was his one chance to ambush them. He crawled a little distance closer to the sleeping creatures, removed two javelins from those slung at his back and planted one firmly in the earth. The second he lifted and sighted on the wolf closest to the tree. Holding it as he'd once been shown at primary school, he hefted the spear once to test it's weight and then hurled it into the pack of wolves.

Then all hell broke loose.

**A/N: I worry I might have been prolonging this fight too long with this chapter, but it needed some set-up. A huge thanks to everyone who reviews, it's massively appreciated. Just so you know, I have a bet with my friend that I can't hit 500 reviews before I hit 50,000 words. And I'd really like that extra tenner in my pocket. :D**


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: I don't know what to say— You guys are awesome! I think I got something like 60 reviews yesterday. I know I can't expect that every update, but seriously wow. Thank you, it's really appreciated.**

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë  
****Chapter Eighteen**

The javelin sailed majestically through the air before plummeting into the pack of wolves, eliciting a yelp of pain as it took one of the sleeping beasts through the chest. The remaining oiks leapt up immediately, noses twitching, tongues lolling and eyes gleaming as they tried to discover the cause of the yelp.

However Harry didn't wait for them to gather their wits and let loose with his second javelin. Though he didn't even wait to watch it strike before he was gone, he heard another yelp from the wolves behind him as he went dashing madly through the woods, back the way he'd come.

Green rushed all around him as he sprinted through the forest, everything except the ground in front of him a blur in his peripheral vision. For the first few seconds, he couldn't be sure that the wolves were in pursuit. Between the sounds of his heart thudding in his ear and the noises he made as he went crashing through the undergrowth, hell itself could have been chasing him for all he knew.

But then came the howls. Long, indignant, angry howls. And he knew the wolves were on his tail. A little thrill of fear shot through Harry and he pushed it away as quickly as it had come. He had to run now, he didn't have time to be scared. After the first hundred meters or so Hedwig swooped from the sky before him, Sternley still on her head, and they only paused long enough for the hat to shout a few words.

"They're all right on your tail," he said. "There's a boulder just up ahead. Good place to use your probolators, I reckon."

Harry didn't have breath to respond, so merely nodded and powered on with a little burst of energy. The blur of green in his vision intensified as all he saw before him were the next two steps. As he reached the large stone Sternley had indicated, he unslung another javelin from his back. Then, he vaulted the rock, turned and let loose with the spear, sending it sailing between the enormous trees of the forest. He fell back behind the boulder, pressing his back against the cool stone.

There was no yelp of pain this time, but that was just fine with Harry. He'd only thrown it to find his arm and range. Peeking over the boulder he could see the first hints of the wolves closing down upon him through the gaps in the dense foliage, loping along at incredible pace. They were closer than he'd anticipated.

Harry removed two probolators from his pocket and blew softly on the first one to arm it. He stood, took a moment to calculate the trajectory of the throw and then cast it out toward the wolves. It landed in the space between Harry and the oiks and exploded with a deafening roar that cast mud, flecks of stone and splinters in an enormous arc of destruction.

The wolves barked and yelped in fear and paused, momentarily too scared to go on. This was all the chance Harry needed and he blew on and threw the second probolator, the small stone whizzing off into the trees and landing directly among the wolves. Not even pausing to witness the destruction first hand, Harry raced off into the forest once more, leaving the astonished and frightened wolves to regroup behind him.

He crashed through a number of blue flowering plants, crushing the blossoms beneath his feet as he ran. Once again it wasn't long before the wolves were in the chase, but Sternley's hit and run tactics had given Harry exactly the lead he'd needed. As he reached the straight path through the forest which he'd extravagantly trapped Hedwig descended once more for Sternley to shout instructions.

"Right, left, middle," he called, reminding Harry of their pre-established route through the maze of traps. "Left, left, middle, left, right—"

The first three had been enough. Like clockwork, Harry's memory had kicked in and he remembered the route perfectly, navigating the traps with ease. Around the red bush that concealed the bow trap and under the branch that held the horizontal spear trap cocked.

The wolves were not so lucky. As Harry emerged from the kill zone, the wolves hit the other side and almost as soon as they did, the hisses of swinging branches accompanied by yelps and howls of pain began to reach Harry's ears. Whether his blood had made any difference, Harry couldn't be sure, but the wolves certainly ran straight along the path and headlong into almost every trap.

Harry, at the other side of the trapped path, took a running jump toward a large elm tree, hooking his arm around one of the branches and hoisting himself up the trunk. Here he crouched low and removed another two of his javelins, preparing himself to ambush the wolves once more.

"They're still coming," Sternley told Harry, having taken another jaunt on Hedwig above the battlefield. "Slower now, more cautiously."

"You've got to admire their persistence," remarked Harry, though certainly felt he'd admire it more if they weren't trying to kill and eat him. "How many left?"

"Hard to make out," replied Sternley. "Those first two javelins took one out a piece. There were two too badly injured after the probolator to carry on the chase and were left behind. At least one more is lying still in the middle of all those traps and I think those still coming are all injured."

Harry nodded and licked his lips in anticipation. Between the wolves and him there was a clear stretch of ground in the forest. Previously there'd been a number of trees here, but the storm a few days earlier had felled several, making it a perfect place for Harry's final ambush.

The wolves emerged into the clearing tentatively and from what he could see, Harry couldn't really blame them.

Where there had been nine, only four remained. One was his particular enemy, the enormous oik with the mangled face and was touting two large gashes in its upper chest along side the other injuries Harry had already caused. The other three were faring considerably worse. Each was festooned with a plethora of cuts, scorch marks and other miscellaneous injuries. One appeared barely able to put any weight on one paw, while another gushed blood from a wound on its head into its eyes and was perpetually blinking.

Harry steeled himself and let loose with the first javelin, it soared through the air toward the largest wolf, but was anticipated and the wolf leapt aside, just in time. But Harry had thrown a second javelin almost immediately and this one flew straight toward wolf with the damaged paw, which didn't react quickly enough. The javelin buried its length into the wolf's side, dropping it where it stood.

Harry tossed another probolator toward the drastically thinned pack and leapt from the tree, heading off toward the Anglia. The explosion behind him echoed from the tree trunks all around, reverberating through the entire forest. He skipped past the line of waiting traps and into the warded area, where he collapsed behind the car, watching and waiting.

He sat there for a long, nervous minute. His heart beating like a hammer inside his chest, his breath baited as he tensed himself ready to spring out and do battle. His head was strangely empty though, as if someone had placed his thoughts on mute. All that remained of Harry was the adrenaline coursing through his body.

He almost jumped out of his skin as Hedwig and Sternley soared down from the sky to land next to him on the Anglia's wing mirror. Sternley wore a grim expression that Harry wasn't entirely sure how to read.

"Three left," said Sternley. "They've avoided the traps on the way in and seem to be tracking your scent through the wards. They'll be on you in a few minutes."

"Three?" asked Harry, feeling as though he might laugh. Three might as well have been three hundred for all the chance he had of fighting them. "Any suggestions?"

"Give Hedwig your last probolators, she can do more with them from the air than you can on the ground."

Harry nodded. It made sense and in honesty, the last thing he needed right now was to suddenly explode as a probolator was detonated in the heat of battle. He fished two out, breathed on them gently and carefully placed them in the waiting claws of Hedwig. He pushed his hand into his pocket and came across one more probolator.

"One more than Hedwig can carry," said Harry, more to himself than anything.

"We'll try and take the big one from the air," continued Sternley, apparently oblivious to Harry's interruption. "The other ones are wounded enough that you might have a chance."

"Might?"

Sternley turned a look upon him so dark that Harry wondered if that was how he'd earned his name.

"Harry, you've single-handedly bested the large majority of a pack of Goblin oiks with no wand. If anyone can fight these last three off, you can."

Harry gave him a wan smile.

"Thanks Sternley," he said. "You've been brilliant."

"Well wait 'till the end of the fight to say that," replied Sternley gruffly.

But as the sound of snuffling noses and of twigs cracking beneath paws drew closer, Harry couldn't help but wonder if this wasn't the end.

He drew his wand and studied it, as though seeing it for the first time. It was dented and marked by grease from his fingers, a number of scratches ran along its surface that Harry were sure hadn't been there at the end of his second year. What spells did he know that he could use to kill a wolf? None. Not that it really mattered, what chance did he stand anyway?

He took a deep gulp of air, steadied himself, then simultaneously threw Hedwig into the air and leapt, wand in one hand and sword in the other, from behind the car.

He targeted the closest wolf. His wand flashing out and every jinx Harry had ever learned flying to the tip of his tongue, each jostling for prominence until one fell out.

"Transogenu!"

The Knee-Reversal hex thundered from the end of his wand and struck the wolf square on in the face. From what Harry remembered of the jinx, it ought to have been painless, but the spell hadn't been designed for wolves and Harry watched as the creatures' legs all turned inwards with a painful sounding crunch of breaking bones.

The wolf let out an almighty howl and collapsed to the ground, twitching pathetically.

Harry turned his attention to the second just as Hedwig and Sternley swooped down, the first probolator striking the large wolf in the face, but failing to explode. Apparently the mere impact was exceptionally painful, for the wolf howled and jumped away from Harry, eyes scanning the sky.

But the other wolf leapt at Harry, its teeth seeking his throat and he had to throw himself aside, losing sight of the battle between Sternley and the oik.

He rose as swiftly as he could but was immediately bowled over by a second lunge from the wolf that sent him sprawling on the ground. It reared over him, gleaming fangs flashing down, but Harry whipped up his sword, missing with the blade but the cross-hilt crashing hard into the wolf's skull.

Though it knocked the wolf's darting head to one side, the creature's powerful legs still pinned Harry to the ground. He swung the sword again, the pommel crashing down on the beast's head and this time the wolf was dazed enough for Harry to roll it over, landing on top of it.

Like lightning the wolf reacted, biting out and tearing a huge cut in Harry's arm. With a gasp of pain he instinctively let go of the sword and it fell out of reach. He rolled away and rose just as the wolf came at him again, soaring through the air.

"Tarantallegra!" he cried, getting his wand up just in time.

As the wolf knocked him to the ground again, its legs began to fly chaotically in all directions and it splayed on top of him. Heedless of its crazily dancing legs, the wolf snapped again at his face, but Harry was able to seize the wolf by the nuzzle with one hand and force the mouth away.

He pushed the beast away with as much strength as he could while reaching for the sword, but it was far too heavy, far too strong. Inch by inch it won the battle toward his throat, its eyes yellow eyes gleaming in excitement as it pushed toward victory.

Just as Harry thought it was all over, an explosion erupted near by, spattering mud across both combatants. Hedwig's last probolator. He'd given her two, after all. But— But he'd had one left. And that meant— acting as fast as lightning, Harry reached into his pocket with his free hand and seized the last probolator. He wrenched it free of his trousers and pushed the pebble into the wolf's gaping mouth.

Praying that wolf breath was as good as human breath as far as the probolators were concerned, Harry used both hands to force the wolf's jaw closed and then head-butted the beast firmly under the jaw with all the power he could muster.

The wolf swallowed, it's eyes wide with astonishment, then there was a sound like the tearing of paper and the entire creature gave an enormous, awkward spasm, then fell lifelessly on top of Harry.

He pushed the creature off him hurriedly and staggered to his feet. He snatched the sword from the ground and leapt in the direction of the largest wolf, his sword and wand ready to fight. And then he stopped.

The oik was lying on the ground, wounded and defeated. Hedwig and Sternley, neither of whom seemed hurt in any way, fluttered down and perched on the roof of the car. Neither of them made any noise, but waited to see what Harry would do next.

Blood ran from an enormous gash in the wolf's side and stained the grass crimson. It looked up at Harry from where it lay, its chest heaving with the effort of breathing and for a split second, Harry drew some bizarre parallel between it and the lynx. Both of which he'd seen in their final moments, both of which had fallen in battle, bloodied and wounded.

Instinctively he raised his wand and stepped forward to help. To save the oik where he'd been unable to save the lynx. But then it glared up at him, angry golden eyes filled to bursting with hatred and he stopped. Because he knew it wasn't the lynx, it was nothing like his friend and nothing he could do would change that. The first thing it would do if he helped it would be to throw itself at his throat.

He lowered the wand and stared down at it as it tried in vain to lift its head and attack. He ought to have felt anger for the death of his friend, he supposed, or triumph at defeating his foe. Or guilt perhaps, for killing so many of the wolf's brethren. But he didn't. If anything, he felt a little sorry for the pathetic creature at his feet. Bred for little else but to kill and destroy. Consumed with hatred from the day it was born till the day it died.

He lifted the sword.

He thought he ought to say something. Something victorious, perhaps. Something witty, poignant, fearsome or vengeful. But he didn't feel any of those things, so instead he said exactly how he felt.

"Sorry."

The sword fell.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: I just wanted to clear a couple of things up. Firstly, you guys are awesome. Super awesome. I'm honestly reading every one of your reviews, but I honestly couldn't reply to all of them. Secondly, a lot of people seem to want to know if this story is about to finish soon. Absolutely not. You are correct in assuming we're coming to the end of this particular section/arc/period/whathaveyou, but I have no intention of ending this any time soon. Thirdly, loads of people seem to be calling me up about describing Ron as having 'faultless loyalty', but you've got to remember that this is from a twelve year old Harry's perspective. Thus far, all he knows of Ron is that he's been his best friend for two years and came with him to fight Voldemort and a Basilisk. Just sayin'. **

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë  
****Chapter Nineteen**

Harry wiped the sword of Gryffindor on the grass and then tossed it haphazardly aside, not even bothering to watch as it slid away across the ground. His head was full of a loud buzzing, as though a swarm of bees had somehow managed to infiltrate his brain. The skin on his face tingled and everything in his vision was distorted and surreal. He walked closer to the car, where Sternley and Hedwig waited and watched.

"We ought to look at that wound," said Sternley.

"Yes," said Harry, but automatically. As if he only had the slightest control over his own actions. "We probably ought to."

But he didn't and instead he merely sank to the ground and lay on his back, staring up at the bright blue sky. High above him, a thousand miles or so it seemed, the tiniest wisps of white cloud jetted by, propelled by winds too high up to graze the boughs of even the tallest trees. His skin felt like it was dancing across the surface of his body, tingling and itching.

He didn't want to look at the cut in his shoulder, or do any of the things he knew the must. He didn't want to clear the dead, or remove the remains of his traps, didn't want to check the wards or retrieve his enchanted weapons. Didn't want to do anything but lie in the grass, watch the world go by and bleed.

It was a strange thought, he realised, a strange desire, to bleed. But he saw it from a distance, as though he'd been pulled out of his own head and left to analyse the thoughts as an outsider. He was in no danger of bleeding to death, the cut in his arm wasn't nearly so bad as the one that the basilisk fang had left, he could bleed for a minute. He felt that he ought to suffer in some way, he ought to make some sacrifice after so many died by his hand.

Somewhere nearby, a bird twittered and this single, lone call of nature pierced the silence in Harry's mind. A moment later his head was ablaze with sound, colour and vibrant life. Birds sang, insects buzzed, somewhere in the distance he could hear the river burble along its narrow rocky bed.

Why had he never heard it before?

Sunlight poured into every corner of Harry's mind, enriching everything. The greens of the grass and the trees were brighter, the blue of the sky and the Anglia hypnotically so. Every blossom on every tree and shrub seemed to burn with intensity, each lighting up the day as bright as the sun.

The slightest of small smiles crept onto his lips.

It was as though someone had crammed the entire universe into his brain. Everything was in there and so bright, so miraculous and peaceful. Except that he didn't have a brain any more, didn't really have a body, he was dissolving around the edges and the lines of his existence were becoming smudged. Where a moment ago there had been Harry Potter, now there was just—

"Harry," said Sternley gently and this one word was all it took to bring him back to reality.

He opened his eyes, sat up and looked around. The forest around him, though still beautiful, was no longer the incredibly vivid sensory experience that had temporarily overwhelmed him.

"Are you okay?" asked Sternley, his voice clearly laced with a great deal of concern.

"I just— just felt really weird," said Harry, struggling to find words to describe the experience. "Like I was becoming the forest and the forest was becoming me."

"It's probably just shock," replied Sternley, soothingly. "You've just had a very traumatic experience."

Harry nodded, but he wasn't so sure. It had felt so real, he had felt so connected and energised and bursting with life. But whatever it had been, it had passed now and his arm was throbbing with pain.

He looked down and regarded his arm. The tear in the skin was long but shallow. Automatically he lifted his wand and realised he didn't need any instruction from Sternley, didn't need to mutate the spell, didn't really need the wand motion or words that he used, because he felt the magic so keenly.

"Scourgify."

And this time there was no pain, because he softened the intent. Just a gentle whisper that suffused his arm, cleaned away the dirt and cleansed the wound. He gave another gentle flick of his wand, that felt superfluous somehow, as though he'd outgrown it.

"Suturium."

The wound stitched together, the edges stretching inward, binding and automatically puckering inward, just as Sternley had taught him. What had been a wound two seconds before was now just blank, fresh skin.

"Very impressive," remarked Sternley, admiring Harry's handiwork.

"I've had a fantastic teacher," replied Harry, with a shrug.

If hats could blush, then this one certainly would have.

The rest of the day's sunlight was spent repairing the damage caused to the forest by his battle. The traps were carefully dismantled, those that hadn't been tripped doubly so. And Harry spent a long while trekking through the forest, collecting his javelins.

The craters caused by his probolators were painstakingly disguised. The last thing Harry or Sternley wanted was for a goblin, or other unfriendly creature to come across the remains of a magical battle and deduce that a wizard was living in their forest.

Then came the biggest problem. What to do with the corpses of the wolves he'd killed. He couldn't leave them where they were, that was out of the question. Something would notice, sooner or later. And he couldn't burn them, it would attract far too much attention. It was Sternley that had eventually come up with the solution to this problem.

"Create another set of wards, somewhere out in the forest, to disguise your magic," he suggested. "Then I'll teach you some spells to help you bury them."

Harry nodded, this made a great deal of sense, though it still meant he had to drag the corpses of the wolves he'd killed through the forest to a single location. It was slow, laborious work, especially under the heat of the sun above.

The forest seemed to be teeming with life as the afternoon dragged on, providing a bitter contrast to the death that had accompanied the morning. Happily buzzing bees seemed to flutter lazily around every flower and rabbits, normally asleep this early in the night were hopping around as though curiously investigating every inch of the forest.

It wasn't just the wildlife though, the plants too seemed more alive. Their leaves more vivid, their blossoms more pronounced and beautiful. All rippling in the breeze, the rustling of the leaves sounding like far off applause. Harry couldn't explain it, but the entire thing made him feel peaceful and at ease.

Harry heaved the last of the wolves into the area he'd chosen; beneath the same elm that he'd first ambushed them. Here the ground was clear a little way around the tree and this gave Harry the room to dig.

He spent a few minutes preparing the wards. The process and magic came far easier to him now than they had on that first day and it wasn't just experience with this particular type of magic. He'd increasingly noticed, over the last week, that the more he improved his understanding of a variety of magic, the better he understood all types of magic.

Indeed the closer he came to understanding the fundamental workings of his art, the more he understood why certain spells reacted in certain ways. The more he understood the fundamental differences between curses, charms, transfiguration and all the other dozens of variety of spell the more he was able to manipulate magic of all forms more astutely.

"You've used spells to dig in Herbology before, I assume," said Sternley, clearly preparing to teach Harry the basics of magical grave digging. "Well what we're going to do is—"

"I'd like to try this one myself," interrupted Harry quickly, hoping Sternley wouldn't take offence. "I mean, it's just a rolling mutation right? How badly could I mess it up?"

"No, no, go right ahead," said Sternley, with a tone in his voice that Harry thought might be pride.

Harry lifted his wand and concentrated carefully. The spell Professor Sprout had taught him in first year was one that scooped out a tiny piece of soil, just enough for him to tuck the roots of a plant inside. In second year, Sprout had taught him a spell that would loosen earth around the root.

He tried as hard as he could to remember the exact wand motions to the millimetre, the words he'd spoken, tried to remember the exact experience of performing the spell. Then he tried to roll one into the other, merging the wand motions in his mind, merging the words and the feel of the magic.

Something in his body that he couldn't find the words to describe lit up inside him. Something that he knew was his manipulation of magic, but that was unquantifiable and endless. And it was like he was playing music, singing, writing, laughing and crying all at once, but doing nothing as emotionally or intellectually complex as those things. It was something primal and transcendental. It was something fundamental to his existence.

"Foderus Formus!" he cried and the earth before him split apart and rose in two enormous cascades, leaving an empty hole the size of a small swimming pool in front of him.

The feeling ebbed away and Harry collapsed to his knees. He felt empty, as though someone had hollowed him out with a spoon until he was nothing but a shell. He felt like he'd never be complete again. He felt exhausted, washed out and fragile. It was all he could do not to fall into the pit before him.

"Merlin, you don't do anything by halves, do you?" asked Sternley, chuckling slightly, but Harry knew from his tone that he wasn't amused.

"What was that?" asked Harry, his entire body felt so light, so empty.

"I don't know," admitted Sternley. "I'm not a wizard, Harry."

"You must," insisted Harry. "You've seen it before at least?"

"I've seen it before," said Sternley, his tone wary. "I couldn't begin to tell you what it was though. It's not my place."

"What does it mean? Am I—? I feel different."

"You will for a while, exhausted and broken, but you're not. That's just how you've always felt and this is just a comparison to what you felt for those few seconds."

Had it been seconds? It had seemed like a lifetime.

"As for what it means," continued Sternley. "I think you're in a better position to answer that than I."

And Harry knew what he mean, because in a confused, jumbled sort of way, he understood what it was that had happened. He knew that for the first time, he'd really experienced just what it felt like to perform magic. He knew that each and every time before, he had been following someone else's guidelines, someone else's magic. It had been fluent and natural, but this time he'd had to force his magic along new pathways and he had felt the force of it resisting the change.

But what did that mean in the grand scheme of things?

He hadn't the foggiest.

"Who would know?" asked Harry eventually. "Who else have you seen it happen to."

"Dozens of wizards and witches over the years," replied Sternley. "Each as different as the next. But Dumbledore will understand, Dumbledore could explain it to you."

Harry nodded gently, then rose to his feet.

"Sternley, I think it's about time we were getting home," he said.

"I think we'd better start by getting these wolves into the hole," replied Sternley, humour creeping into his voice.

Harry nodded and rolled the first corpse into the grave with his foot.

By the time he'd finished, the sun was setting again and the sky was lost in a myriad of burning colours. He stared down at the tightly packed earth that stretched in a rectangle before him. Another unmarked grave in the forests of Valbonë.

He felt as though he ought to say something. That was the thing to do at a funeral, wasn't it? Yet nothing sprang to mind. It would have been easier to say something about the lynx, but things had been so rushed and he hadn't had a chance. He remembered the words he'd said when it had died 'Thank you. I'm so sorry.'

Simple and sweet. That's how he should do it.

He stared solemnly at the grave.

"You fought well," he said, his voice low and respectful. "But not well enough."

He turned and walked away.


	20. Chapter 20

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë  
Chapter Twenty**

The sun beat down on the forest with such fierce intensity that it was almost a surprise that the trees weren't melting around him like snowmen. Worse than the heat was the humidity, which until today had been negligible, but now was thick and cloying against his skin.

"Falconer, Klael, Violence, Gambit. Falconer, Klael, Violence, Gambit. Or was it Falconer, Violence, Gambit, Klael? Huh."

Harry lowered his wand, brushed sweat sodden hair out of his eyes with his free, scarred hand, and looked down at the Tela once more.

The spidery diagram that had once covered the floor around the Anglia had been condensed on to a couple of rolls of birch bark only a few hours earlier. But already the charcoal scratchings had begun to smudge with Harry's constant pawing of the document and he was beginning to think that Sternley's idea was fundamentally flawed.

"Use the sticking charm you learned earlier," suggested Sternley, as Harry rubbed angrily at a smudge. "It'll fix the charcoal."

"But it wouldnt—" began Harry, his tone laden with objection, but paused when he considered Sternley's raised brows. If you could call them that. "I know, I know — Rolling mutation it is."

"I wouldn't say that it's exactly a rolling mutation any more," conceded Sternley. "I'm not sure what exactly it is that you're doing."

Harry lifted his wand and concentrated. Sternley had a point, it wasn't as though he was taking a spell, breaking it apart and performing the individual components any more. Rather, he was taking several spells, breaking them apart and combining the components in new and interesting ways.

"Epoximise," he said, tearing apart the sticking charm even as he cast it. Finding the charcoal and the birch with his magic and forcing them to fuse.

It felt weird, every time he did it, as though he'd just had all the filling sucked out of him. He thought it was because he was forcing his magic to respond in a new way it'd never done before. Like lifting something really heavy, perhaps. But it wasn't physical and that was far too simple a task. Perhaps it was more like complex math problems. But it wasn't mental either.

There was no comparison really, it was magical and that was all there was too it.

Harry ran his fingers over the Tela and groaned with annoyance as they immediately smudged the charcoal all over the bark.

"Can't get it first time, every time," said Sternley, unhelpfully. For about the tenth time that day.

And that was the fundamental problem— Harry couldn't ever be sure whether what it was that he was combining would work or not. He could make educated guesses perhaps, but twice he'd ended up with an orange car while pushing for rust resistant body panels.

Yet, on the other-hand, he'd combined the handful of laundry and tailoring charms Sternley had taught him that had rendered a perfectly formed, nicely lined wolf-skin cape. Even Sternley, who by his own admission, had no eye for clothes other than headgear, said it was a very fetching article. However, the sun beating down on the forest essentially prohibited Harry from wearing it, so he'd slung it across the back seat as a blanket.

He lifted his wand and began again, this time cannibalising elements of the hydrant charm and adding those to the sticking spell.

"Epoximise," he incanted, focusing intently on finding some middle ground between these two charms.

A jet of clear glue exploded from his wand, covering the bark, the car, Sternley and his hair, clothes and face. Harry gazed down at the mess, his eyes wide in astonishment.

"Can't get it second time either, apparently," said Sternley, his voice dark and humourless.

"Sorry Sternley," said Harry, pulling the most apologetic face he could manage. "Evanesco."

The fluid disappeared and Harry stared down at the birch bark glumly. Perhaps he just ought to get on with his bindings.

In fact, he and Sternley had reached an incredibly complicated section of fixing the enchantments on the car. Complicated both academically and morally.

They'd already stripped an enormous amount of poorly or redundantly used binds out of the Tela. Mr. Weasley clearly hadn't been working from a single unified source, because at least a dozen of the binds on the flying charm alone were cancelling each other out.

His motto had clearly been 'quantity over quality', something Sternley explained as a common failing among fledgling enchanters, who tend to add each newly discovered bind to their project, heedless of spell interactions, purpose or requirement. The end result had been a confusing, incoherent mess of self-referential binds, endless loops that served no function and some down-right dangerous failings that had probably been the cause of Harry and Ron's misadventures with the invisibility booster.

Harry and Sternley, though admittedly mostly Sternley, had painstakingly worked their way through the Tela, stripping out unwanted functions, replacing unwanted binds and eradicating unwanted surprises. For some reason, and Harry could only imagine Mr. Weasley had misunderstood their function, the car had been layered with charms and binds that instantly blackened all the windows.

Sternley had seemed strangely unnerved when Harry asked him what the purpose could be.

In the end, what they'd been left with was a much simpler, far more efficient and streamlined Tela, that preserved the major functions of the car as well as adding a few more that Sternley thought essential. Like the ability to jettison projectiles through the headlights. Even Harry could see some sense in this, not to mention that he thought it was probably one of the coolest pieces of magic he'd ever attempted.

Chunk by chunk they'd rebuilt the car. Both physically, for it was in a dire state of repair, and magically. Not only did the Anglia gleam in the sunlight, but for the first time all of it's dials worked. Perhaps not in the manner the original manufacturers had intended — the tachometer was now actually an altimeter — but they served a function nonetheless.

However, step by step, they'd come to the largest issue of them all; the car's sentience.

Twelve simple binds and two charms were all that existed of the car's intelligence, personality and, in all real sense, existence. Sternley had assumed that it couldn't possibly be that simple, that there had to be something else causing the advanced level of self-awareness, some spell interaction or hidden depth to the enchantment. Yet at one point they had stripped away every spell except these fourteen and as far as they could tell, the car was fine, giving a merry toot of it's horn on request.

"We ought to destroy them," said Sternley, fervently. "Things like this shouldn't exist, it's an abomination."

"It's quite happy," replied Harry. "Why not leave him be?"

But Sternley wouldn't, or couldn't explain his fervent dislike of the car's existence. Harry on the other hand, considered stripping them out tantamount to murder and considering the car had saved his life at least once, arguably twice, he felt he owed a great deal of loyalty to the vehicle.

"In that case," sighed Sternley wearily, after failing for the tenth time that day to convince Harry to remove the binds. "You're going to have to add some, you can't leave it like that."

"Like what?" asked Harry.

"It's— It's—" began Sternley clearly searching for words. "It's stunted. There's not enough binds or charms for it to have a full, coherent thought process."

Harry considered the car, wondering whether it understood quite what they were having a conversation about. Surely not or it would have left ages ago, wouldn't it? He stroked the bonnet softly and pondered.

What if by adding more charms he was doing more harm than good? What if it were perfectly happy as it was? He'd learned with the lynx that sometimes it isn't always a good thing to get involved with lives you didn't really comprehend.

He put this to Sternley.

"It's not the same thing at all," he insisted, flatly. "The lynx was a wild animal. This is an invention of wizard-kind. You have a duty to complete the process."

"Why? It's got a personality, it's got understanding and intelligence and everything. I might hurt it."

"You won't hurt it," replied Sternley. "It might not like it at first, but you've got to give it the choice itself."

"I think we ought to stop talking about it as though it weren't here," said Harry, obstinately. "What do you think, car?"

"Toot," said the car.

For some reason Harry distinctly remembered having a long conversation with the car, the night before he'd come to Valbonë. Or, perhaps if not exactly long, then one that consisted of more than just 'toot'. He wasn't entirely sure whether he'd imagined it or not, but he thought he hadn't.

If only he could get in the state of mind to talk to it again.

But he shuddered and pushed this thought aside. Who knew where he might end up then. China? The Moon? Jupiter? All three seemed equally likely.

But the car ought to have a say and the only way he could do that was to do as Sternley suggested.

"Alright then," he said, pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes. "Let me finish working this invisibility booster and we'll take a look at it."

"Good," replied Sternley, the tone of his voice indicating that he still wasn't entirely happy with these circumstances.

Not that this particularly bothered Harry. For he had the wand and magic and Sternley was just a hat. Eventually, despite everything Sternley said, it was Harry that made the decisions.

Harry glanced up at the morning sky. Overhead a troupe of swallows danced with one another, turning over and over as they sped through the sky. Closer to earth, insects hummed their way from flower to flower, disregarding Harry and his car entirely. For they were far more concerned with matters of pollen and nectar than wizards and magic.

This time yesterday, he'd been fighting. Or perhaps just about to fight. It seemed like a million years ago now. Another lifetime, perhaps. Perhaps it was just so absurd. Kill a pack of goblin-bred wizard-hunting wolves one day and start building a flying car the next.

But then, between horrible relatives, jumping on to school roofs, deadly Dark Wizards and deadlier giant snakes, when had his life ever been normal?

One of these days he'd have a morning where something absurd didn't happen.

With a small chuckle, Harry brushed perspiration from his brow, lifted his wand and concentrated.

"Now, how did those binds go again?"

"Falconer, Klael, Violence, Gambit. Falconer, Klael, Violence—"

**A/N: So at 480 reviews, my friend was prepared to give me my bet as a fore-drawn conclusion, but at the last minute I decided that I wasn't comfortable taking money for writing fanfiction, even a tenner. So the pair of us decided to both put both our stakes toward a good cause. Thus, thanks to your reviews, Book Aid International have been able to send an extra ten books to impoverished children in sub-Saharan Africa. **

**What's more, as I paid the donation via their website, the New Internationalist matched my investment. That means twenty books :3**

**The BAI does some really amazing work bringing the magic of reading to people who otherwise wouldn't get the chance, so if you get a second, just type them into google and check it out. **

**Seriously, thanks again, you've no idea how much I've appreciated the support. You guys are awesome.**


	21. Chapter 21

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë  
Chapter Twenty One**

"You promised me," said Sternley, sound a little too petulant for Harry's liking. "You said you'd do it after the invisibility booster."

"And I will do it," replied Harry. "Just not yet. There's still some more things I want to tweak yet."

"You've been tweaking it for hours, when are you going to accept that—"

"It will work, the twins said so," interjected Harry.

"The twins are not highly intelligent, sophisticated beings that have been around for the last eight centuries."

"No, they're not," admitted Harry, shrugging.

"So will you please sort that—"

"Fine," said Harry hotly, his face screwed up slightly. "I'll do your stupid binds and charms. But it'd better not hurt the car."

He walked away from the infuriating hat and stood beside the car, his hand touching the paintwork fondly. He really didn't want to do this, every instinct in his body was screaming at him that this was a terrible thing to do. That it could turn out terribly for the Anglia. But then, his instincts hadn't been all that hot of late. Could he trust them? Should he trust them?

And then there was Sternley, who'd never steered him wrong, but who was always willing to debate, to converse, to rationalise. Not this. Harry knew, or thought, that Sternley's hatred of the car's sentience was overpowering, all consuming. Though he didn't know why. Was he worried about another inanimate object taking his place? Of course not. Sternley wasn't one for self-confidence issues, or prone to actually worry about his own ego, despite his jokes.

After all, he had spent the last eight hundred years sitting on children's heads.

No, there had to be a reason for it. A good reason. Though whatever it was, Sternley wasn't about to share it with Harry.

But this too gave Harry cause for concern. Sternley always explained things if Harry really wanted to know.

So what could be so bad that Sternley wouldn't say? Was the Anglia a threat? It certainly hadn't seemed so, especially considering that it had saved his life.

'But it also brought you here, didn't it?' came the nastly little voice from the back of his head. 'Close to Voldemort, close to goblins, into danger.'

Harry pushed this aside too, and stared at the car in question for a long time, his brow furrowed. Sternley didn't seem to object to his pause, content to let Harry puzzle it out in his head. And in the end, Harry knew Sternley must be right. Sternley was always right, had never led him astray, had always looked out for him. Protected him.

He stepped towards the car and lifted his wand.

Then stopped.

And shivered.

Despite the day's earlier muggy heat, it had lapsed into an exceptionally chilly evening, indeed tendrils of mist had begun to creep behind the trees. But perhaps it wasn't the cold that had made him shiver, as much as the thought of what he was about to do.

"Cold isn't it?" asked Harry.

"I wouldn't know," replied Sternley.

Harry looked at him and gave a little nervous smile.

"I always forget you're a hat."

"You're stalling Harry."

"I'm not stalling," he said with as much fake indignation as he could muster. "It really is cold. I'm going to get my cloak."

Perfect, thought Harry, not only am I buying extra time, but I also get to wear my spiffy new cloak!

He opened the back door, removed the wolf skin and wrapped it around himself. It was, admittedly, a little large. Almost two feet too large in fact. But this was neither hear nor there as far as Harry was concerned. He would grow into it, after all and until then, he and Sternley had enchanted it so that it never quite reached the floor, despite it being far too big.

"Are you ready now?" asked Sternley, his voice sounding oddly urgent.

"Almost," replied Harry, wrapping the cloak around himself a little, then extricating his arm.

He spent a good two minutes arranging the folds neatly, until even he realised that this game was getting a little ridiculous. It was time. He swallowed, pushed hair out of his eyes, and took a deep breath.

He stepped towards the car and lifted his wand.

Then stopped.

And cocked his head to one side.

"Can you hear that?" he asked, indicating the forest with a jerk of his thumb.

"For Merlin's sake, Harry!" exclaimed Sternley. "Would you stop—"

"No, I'm being serious," replied Harry, craning his head to listen. "It sounds like— like someone screaming."

"I can't hear anything," snapped Sternley, but Harry wasn't listening any more.

He took a step away from the car and toward the forest. He really could hear screaming, coming from somewhere beyond the trees. He leapt over to Sternley, snatched him up, dropped him on his head and picked up the sword of Gryffindor. He ran back to where he'd been standing a second ago.

Silence.

Utter silence.

"Harry this is—" began Sternley.

But then a shrill scream cut through the night. It was clearly human, yelling words that Harry couldn't quite make out. It seemed to rebound off the trees of the forest, coming from everywhere at once. He darted back and forth trying to locate where exactly it was coming from.

"You must have heard that!" cried Harry.

"I did," admitted Sternley, some what reluctantly.

"Well we've got to go help!"

"I don't think—" began Sternley, but the screams were worse now, higher pitched and more urgent.

Fearing it was too late to help, Harry leapt off into the forest, his feet crushing bushes, flowers and anything else unlucky enough to get in the way as he crashed through the undergrowth. Cold wind snapped at any exposed skin it could find as he ran, the freezing night chilling him to his bones. Brambles tore at his trousers as he ran, tangling his legs and making him stumble.

Sternley was yelling something in his ear, but it was drowned beneath the volume of the screams. A woman's he thought. They were far closer now and Harry thought he could hear a second voice shouting too. A man's voice, but shrill and high. They were so close now they could have been less than ten feet away, but Harry still couldn't see them. He was beginning to make the voice out though, beginning to hear what they were saying.

Again Sternley was shouting something else that Harry couldn't make out and all three voice came together in inaudible cacophony. He was still running through the cold and it was as though his chest was being crushed in a vice and each breath he took was a little stab of pain. He wanted to sweat but the droplets froze against his skin as they formed.

The leaves around him were turning to ice, the grass beneath his feet freezing and crackling. Each breath that exploded from his mouth seemed to throw a million tiny crystals of ice into the air. And then he'd crashed through a bush into a small clearing and he heard the voices as clearly as if they were standing next to him.

"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"

Not Harry? That didn't make any—

His foot caught a root and he was falling and Sternley was flying from his head.

"Stand aside, you silly girl...stand aside, now..."

He crashed down to the forest floor and all the wind exploded out of him, leaving him lying on the ground, gasping for breath but so very confused. His glasses had fallen from his face and he was blind. What was going—

"Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead—"

Who ever it was, they were going to die for him! But too many had died for him already, hadn't they? The lynx, his father, his mother—

His mother.

"Not Harry! Please...have mercy...have mercy..."

That was his mother's voice. It had to be. Harry fought his way to his hands and knees, patting the ground around him, his fingers desperately trying for his glasses. But the screaming was so loud, deafening.

_He had to help her. _

His fingers closed around something on the ground.

_His mother._

He pushed his bent glasses on to his face and looked around wildly.

_Wasn't his mother dead?_

The forest was awash with dark shapes that moved ever closer.

_So who was screaming?_

"Harry," said a cool, collected voice in his head.

It was a voice that he was intimately familiar with, but couldn't quite place.

"Harry, you need to calm down. Deep breaths. Quickly now."

Harry took a deep breath, the cold air bit at the tender flesh inside his lungs and he hissed in pain. Heedless of the agony, he forced the breath out. In and out. In and out. And slowly the panic ebbed away.

But the screaming still echoed around and around the forest, around and around his head. It tore through him, cutting him to the bone and icy fingers of fear wrapped themselves around his heart.

"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"

Harry staggered to his feet and only now realised he'd lost the sword. Gryffindor's sword. He'd need it to save his mother. His hands scrabbled on the ground looking for it, but it was long gone. Lost in the darkness.

"Harry, I need you to think happy thoughts," that same, cool collected voice speaking in his mind again. The assured tone lent him strength.

What do I have to be happy about? He wondered.

The laugh in his head was curt and dismissive.

"Ron, Hermione, Hagrid, Hogwarts," said the voice. "You, Harry Potter, are a wizard and a damn good one at that."

Harry almost laughed. The screaming had started to fade, but icy fingers closed around his throat and now it was his turn to scream. He heard whatever it was that held him take a deep rattling breath.

"HAPPY THOUGHTS!" boomed the voice in his head.

Harry pushed them forward. Flying his Nimbus 2000. Catching the snitch. Beating Slytherin.

"Now lift your wand," instructed the voice, but it was hard to concentrate with that rotting, miasmic breath blowing into his face.

Harry struggled to lift his wand.

"Say with me 'Expecto Patronum'," said the voice. "And force those happy feelings out. Just like you've been forcing your magic out. You can do it. 'Expecto Patronum'."

"Expecto Patronum," whispered Harry.

"Again," commanded the voice. "With feeling. Push those feelings out. Scream it and throw all of it through your wand."

Hermione by the lake, Ron on his broomstick, Hagrid and Fang in the pumpkin patch. The twins sitting beside the lake. Neville's extra ten points and Draco Malfoy's crestfallen face.

"Expecto Patronum," said Harry.

"Happier. Happier! HAPPIER!"

Picking up a wand for the first time. His eleventh birthday. Naming Hedwig. His mum and dad in the mirror. He pushed them out with all his might.

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!" roared Harry.

And the world exploded with white light.

**A/N: So 's going to be no updates for a few days. The next four chapters will be important ones and despite having already written them I need a little longer to get them as polished as they need to be for me to feel comfortable posting them up. **


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: I know. I know. I'm really sorry. A couple of days became nearly six months, life does that some times, I suppose. I don't think these updates will be like a metronome either, but they'll hopefully be a little more frequent. **

******Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë**  
Chapter Twenty Two

Harry found himself face down in the mud, his glasses twisted and shattered beneath him once again. Hot, thick blood was oozing from his nostril, mingling with the cold, thick muck that oozed under his face.

He rolled over, sat up and instantly regretted it, the blurry world in his vision began to spin around him and he felt bile rising in the back of his throat. He closed his eyes again and only then did he notice the splitting pain in his eyeballs.

"Owww," he groaned, holding his head in his hands.

"You think that's painful?" asked a familiar voice from somewhere nearby. "Try being thrown in the mud and stood on repeatedly."

Harry ever so slightly cracked open his eyes and squinted out into the darkness.

"Sternley, is that you?"

"Who do you think it is?"

Harry shook his head, flicking drops of blood left, right and centre.

"I dunno, I can't see anything. My glasses are broken."

"Well use a repairing charm already," said the hat, rather impatiently.

"But the magic," objected Harry.

"Well you've sort of let that cat out of the bag already with your Patronus Charm. Nice of you to tell me you knew how to do one, by the way."

Harry sat quietly for a moment, trying to remember. He lifted a hand to try and staunch the flow of blood from his nostril.

"I can't. I mean, I didn't think I could. You taught me, didn't you?"

"What?"

"When that thing— It had me by the throat and I heard a voice."

"It's called a dementor and there wasn't any voice, just you screaming."

Harry swallowed, tasting blood in the back of his mouth and shook his head to clear his thoughts, throwing more droplets of blood across the forest floor. He'd been sure it was Sternley.

"But it was in my head," he explained. "I heard someone talk to me in my head, it had to be you."

"It wasn't," replied Sternley, his tone and words flat.

At least it wasn't brimming with concern like the last time that he'd told someone that he could hear voices that nobody else could. Could it have been a snake that— He dismissed that idea immediately. There's no way a snake knew anything about magic.

But he had performed magic, magic that he hadn't known until two minutes earlier, magic that had been taught to him by an unknown voice. Then his stomach lurched with sickening realisation as his brain caught up with Sternley's words.

'Let that cat out of the bag'

He had performed magic in Valbonë, outside the safety of the wards. The one thing he wasn't supposed to do. The one thing that would almost certainly make his stay here even worse than it already was. That would make everything so much worse than it already was.

Though, he supposed it couldn't hurt in that case if he fixed his glasses. His wand, miraculously, had survived the fall and was still in his hand. He stabbed it in the general direction of his glasses.

"Reparo."

The power of sight restored to him, Harry looked around. A crumpled Sternley was lying a little way away, covered brim to peak with what Harry hoped was mud. Harry lifted the hat gently and despite his protestations, turned the wand on him.

"Evanesco."

With Sternley clean and spouting obscenities at every opportunity, Harry tucked the sorting hat under his arm and climbed to his feet. Gryffindor's sword was the next thing he had to find. He sniffed in an attempt to stop the blood still flowing out of his nostril.

"Hey Sternley, did you see—" began Harry, but then snorted with laughter.

"What's so funny?" asked the hat, scowling up at him.

"You," chortled Harry. "You're— You're a— A TALKING HAT."

He burst into peals of laughter that shook his entire body. He laughed so hard and long that tears began to fall in earnest from his eyes. He found himself on his knees again, unable to breath from laughing.

Then as quickly as the laughter had come, it ebbed away, leaving a very confused Harry kneeling on the ground, rubbing his painful ribs.

"What was that about?" asked Sternley.

"I don't know," admitted Harry. "Shock maybe? Some lingering—"

He tilted his head back and roared with laugher once again. Then a second later he was perfectly fine, looking around him with confusion.

"I don't know what's going on," he repeated, blinking.

"I do," said Sternley. "When you cast the patronus, you must've hit yourself with a faulty cheering charm at the same time."

"A CHEERING CHARM?!" bellowed Harry, wrapping his arms around his stomach as he began to laugh uproariously. "A CHEERING CHARM!"

"Quiet," snapped Sternley, angrily. "We need to get back to the car. Quickly. This forest will be swarming with goblins any moment."

Harry nodded and rose, the laughter momentarily abated. He spent a frantic few moments looking for Gryffindor's sword, before catching sight of the glinting metal hanging haphazardly from the branches of a bush. Sternley guided him quickly back to the car and ten minutes later Harry was still swinging between hilarity and terror as he stumbled around a tree and caught sight of the familiar blue bodywork.

Right on the verge of crossing the wards, two screech owls swooped down out the sky and each dropped a letter which he managed to catch with his free hand. He watched as the owls flew past and away, their pale brown forms silhouetted against the moon.

Even as he sat into the driver's seat, his body slumping into it's comfortable death, his nose still gushed blood down his chest. With shaking hands and in hoarse tones, he lifted his wand and performed the simple healing spell Sternley had taught him earlier.

"Episkey."

He then let out a bellow of laughter, that sent birds from nearby trees swooping from their perches and wheeling hurriedly off into the night.

"Any chance we can stop this?" he asked Sternley, wiping tears from his eyes. "I can't keep laughing like this all the time."

"We can try," replied Sternley. "But first read those letters, I want to know what we're dealing with.

Harry nodded slightly and lifted his wand.

"Lumos," he said quietly and the tip of his wand shone brightly.

He held it close to the first letter in order to better examine it. He recognised the seal immediately as the same as he'd once received from the Ministry of Magic shortly before his second year. A small knot of worry balled up in his stomach and gently he opened it with exhausted, trembling fingers.

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_We have received intelligence (courtesy of the Albanian Government) that you performed the The Patronus Charm at nineteen minutes past ten this evening in a Grade-III Restricted Zone of European Significance._

_The severity of this breach of not only The Leipzig-Valbonë Accords but also the Fifteenth International Wizarding Decree has resulted in your immediate expulsion from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

_As you are currently in a Grade-III Restricted Zone, Ministry representatives are currently unable to attend your case and dispose of your wand as protocol demands. We therefore ask that you turn yourself and your wand over to the correct authorities at the earliest convenient time._

_The severity of the offence, combined with the fact that you have already received an official warning for a previous offence under Section 13 of the International Confederation of Warlocks Statute of Secrecy, we regret to inform you that your presence is required at a criminal hearing at the Ministry of Magic._

_As you are currently residing in a Grade-III Restricted Zone and therefore presumed to be dead and/or in poor mental health, we shall arrange the date of your hearing should you return to the country alive._

_Please note that this is an automated letter and that any return correspondence will not be read until normal work hours resume at 8 a.m._

_Hope you're having a fantastic holiday abroad,_

_Yours sincerely, _  
_Amelia Bones,_  
_Department of Magical Law Enforcement,_  
_Ministry of Magic, _  
_Great Britain._

Harry stared in incomprehension at the letter for some time, before placing it before Sternley, who'd been mercifully silent until this point. He saw the hat lean over the paper and begin to read. He opened the second letter without a great deal of interest.

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_We understand that as a magical tourist in the great country of Albania, you may be ignorant of a great many of our laws, regulations and customs. It is also likely that you are somewhat ignorant of our great nation's history, most particularly the history of Valbonë Valley, the area of the country where you chose to cast a Patronus Charm at approximately twenty minutes past twelve this morning._

_I shall not bore you with the details, but should you have used this spell within the perimeter of the Golbin State of Valbonë (as defined in the The Leipzig-Valbonë Accords) the Brotherhood of Goblins will almost certainly see this as an open declaration of war._

_Please be aware ignorance of the law is not considered a valid form of legal defence in this country. Likewise, please consider that despite your foreign nationality, you are subject to Albanian Law for the duration of your stay. Finally, please also note that under Proposition 9 of Krejtësisht Qesharake, the provocation of war is an act of treason, or, as you are a foreign visitor, of either espionage or deliberate political sabotage (you are free to decide)._

_The punishment for either crime is death._

_Good day, _  
_Faderni Chernenko,_  
_ Senior Chairman of Magic,_  
_ Magical Republic of Albania._

Harry read the final line of the letter and burst into another round of hilarity, rolling around in the seat clutching sides as they tried to split. Then he placed this letter front of Sternley for the hat to read and then collapsed tiredly back in his seat. Outside the car, the wind picked up and howled between the trees, whipping branches against the chassis.

"What do you think?" asked Harry, when Sternley looked up from the second letter.

"I think we're screwed," replied the hat, honestly, his face screwed up in consternation.

"What should I do?"

It took Sternley a while to reply, when he did his voice was drawn and grave.

"The way I see it, you've got three options. You run to Dumbledore and hope that his political clout is enough to protect you. Or you go before the Ministry and take your punishment. Or—"

He trailed off and Harry slowly eased his neck around to examine him. There was an expression he couldn't identify, written across the hat's face. Harry thought it might be guilt.

"Or?" he prodded gently.

"Or you seek asylum from one of the countries or powerful organisations that would welcome a war with the Goblins."

"What sane person would want that?" asked Harry, his mind drifting over all the lectures Binns had given on the bloodthirsty goblin rebellions.

"Countries rooted in the values of Old Magic and with sons to spare. Russia, China, France, America— none of them have good relationships with the goblins and all of them are powerful enough to protect you.

"Then you've got the companies that want to exploit the creatures and other resources of the valley. Some of the corporations and conglomerations have enough political weight within Europe to hide you or even successfully defend you."

"Do you really think there's going to be a war?"

"It seems likely," replied the hat, without a moment of hesitation.

"There's a fourth option though, isn't there?" asked Harry and Sternley made no move to respond this time. "The Albanian letter said nothing about a trial. They'll kill me the moment I arrive."

"You're already guilty in their eyes, there's no legal defence that could save you," said Sternley.

"Would it — my death I mean — be enough to satisfy the goblins?"

"It could be," said Sternley, with an uncomfortable tone to his voice. "But you couldn't guarantee it. What's more, this isn't your fault, this isn't your debt to pay."

"Then whose is it?" snapped Harry angrily, his eyes burning as he spoke. "I did this. If I don't stand up and admit it, tens, hundreds, I don't know, thousands of people might die. Wizards and goblins. Is it really worth it, just for me?"

"But you can't guarantee you'll stop it," replied Sternley. "You can't guarantee that the goblins will be appeased. At best, in their eyes, you're a violent renegade. At worst, a spy or assassin sent to deliberately provoke them. They don't take these things lying down."

"So what would you suggest?" asked Harry, but his heart didn't seem to be in it.

"I suggest, that if you really think you're to blame, that you fix your mess, instead of limply taking the easy way out." Harry turned a flabbergasted expression on the hat, but Sternley wasn't finished. "You heard me. Instead of playing the tragic hero and pretending your somehow sacrificing yourself for something worthwhile, why not buckle down and actually do something worthwhile?

Here's what I say; we go with the original plan and finish fixing this car. We get the hell out of here before the goblins turn up with a ward-sapper and come straight through at us. Then we find some way of fixing this mess before it balloons out of all proportion.

"And if you're so desperate to martyr yourself, we can stay within the boundaries of Albania so if we're caught, you get your wish. But for Merlin's sake, pull your finger out boy and do something useful!"

In the seconds following Sternley's tirade, Harry went through every mindset and every emotion he'd ever experienced before; anger, self-righteousness, realisation, embarrassment, shame, recognition, understanding to name just a few. However, it was the one he settled on that was the most important: determination.

With rejuvenated energy, Harry sat up straight in the driver's seat and turned a wide, cheeky grin to Sternley.

"Right. Any plan other than cause hell?" he asked, his voice brimming with renewed confidence.

"That's precisely what I'm advocating," replied the hat, in a smug tone of voice. "If everything's shaping up in preparation of a war, we'll give them one. Look at the last lot that underestimated you. How does your oik cloak fit? So I say, lets show them why they call me Sternley Erwin Charlemagne Douglas MacArthur the Third!"

Harry paused for a couple of seconds to consider this statement before dissolving into a fit of giggles.

"Who calls you that?" he asked, wiping tears from his eyes.

"Everyone," replied Sternley, wearing a scowl. "Everyone except you."


	23. Chapter 23

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë**  
**Chapter Twenty Three**

The sky was beginning to lighten with the approaching dawn, suspending the forest in semi-darkness. Dew had begun to accumulate on the blades of grass underfoot and the leaves of the trees overhead.

"I'm sorry we have to do this," said Harry, his tone sombre and his heart heavy. "This is the last chance for you lot, two of you can fly and the third can be carried by the others if you want to get out of here. I won't mind."

"Don't be ridiculous," retorted Sternley, a scathing note in his voice. "We're here and that's it."

Hedwig barked her agreement and the car tooted happily. Harry assumed that it too was content with the situation. But he'd had to make sure. Far too often had he been burned by his own assumptions to lightly make decisions based on them.

"I guess this is where we split up then," said Harry, turning to Hedwig.

She fluttered down to his outstretched arm and pecked affectionately at his clothing. He bent his head down to meet hers.

"Fly safe," whispered Harry to the snowy owl perched on his arm, his forehead resting against hers. "When you're done, fly to the Burrow for a little while, Ron'll take care of you."

"Bark," said Hedwig, and with a last lingering look at Harry, took wing.

Harry watched as the owl disappeared into the sky, her heavy burden of six letters pulling her take-off trajectory lower than it normally would have. When she was lost to sight, he turned away and walked away, trying to ignore his stomach, which was curled into a tightly wound knot of concern.

The dawn was coming just like any other. The birds twittered as the deep blue sky slowly brightened through steely shades. The wind roared through the branches, setting whispers through the leaves and the grass. The slightest hint of fog drifted in on the air, possibly remaining from the presence of the dementors the previous evening.

Harry felt the morning ought to have been still and silent. That it ought to have been momentous.

But it was ordinary.

He began to notice the vast cobwebs that were draped between the branches in the trees nearby, each slender thread of silk glimmering with the accumulated beads of water. Harry was glad that Ron wasn't with him and with this thought, was struck with a sudden bout of homesickness and a deep longing for his friends.

As a tiny, hard-working spider dropped from a branch only a few feet away, frantically spinning its web, Harry felt an enormous surge of amusement overwhelm him. He managed to fight back the laughter, but it still made his eyes water.

He and Sternley, try as they might, hadn't been able to dispel his cheering charm. Indeed, working on it had only served to alter the charm's effects. As well as randomly bursting into hysterical laughter at nothing, he was frequently overcome with restless, reckless spells of impulsiveness.

Not something he was entirely comfortable with, in light of the circumstances.

He returned to Sternley and the Anglia, his stomach leaping with nerves.

He shouldn't have been worried, not really. They had a plan, a far more comprehensive and brilliant plan than he'd used against the oiks. He was better prepared, with a free reign to use magic. He was much better equipped, with the javelins and the firesticks ready for use. The Anglia too, was in an almost perfect state of repair.

Though Harry hadn't ever really got the invisibility booster to work. He just didn't quite have the fundamentals behind his charmwork to perform it and Sternley didn't think they had enough time for him to learn them. Instead they opted to work a basic chameleon charm in instead.

It was a poor substitute as it would only colour the car to match the vague shades of its surroundings and certainly wouldn't hold up to close scrutiny, but it would help camouflage it against the sky.

Sternley had warned him that tying the controls for the charms to the car's controls would take the most precise work and would be have to left until last. Harry quickly realised that he hadn't been lying. The charms they'd been using were designed for racing brooms and were designed to work with the inherent pitch and roll of the broomstick, not the steering wheel and pedals of a car.

The binds — the spells used to link the controls to the charms — numbered in the hundreds and were mindbogglingly complex. They had to be applied in strings and in a very particular order or the entire thing would collapse like a house of cards. Gingerly he pulled up his sleeve and raised his wand.

"Precise wand movements now Harry," coached Sternley, as Harry began muttering the bindings under his breath. "Boa bind, miller bind, jamming bind, thief bind. Boa, miller, jamming, thief. Boa, miller, jamming, bott—"

The bonnet of the car exploded in a deep cloud of black smoke, covering Harry's face in a thick layer of black dust. He blinked and stared down at it. He'd forgotten that on the third repetition that the pattern was supposed to change. He lifted his hand to his face and tried to wipe the dirt from his face, but only succeeded in smearing it around.

Sternley chuckled and shook the soot that had accumulated on him to the ground.

"Third repetition change, remember," he said patiently, then looked at the sky, regarding it with a worried expression. "Lets go again."

When the majority of the wandwork was finished, he straightened up and stretched, leaning backward to pull the tightness in his back. He glanced at the early morning sky and reached up to wipe sweat from his forehead. Never had he imagined that fearing for his life could be such an enormous motivation for hard work. His body ached, his eyes stung, his consciousness strained with the effort of staying awake. All he wanted to do was lie down and sleep, but he had a long way to go before he could.

He and Sternley crept out beyond the wards a little later, the sorting hat rammed low on his head and both his wand and the sword in his hands. Together they laid an extra set of concealment wards, using the small cluster of birch trees to their advantage. Sternley explained that looking into these wards from the outside one would see nothing but thick, dark smoke. Which was essential for the hat's plan to work.

"It'll allow you to— Quiet!" The hat's voice became a low hiss and when he spoke again, Harry could tell he was speaking directly into his mind. "Something's moving outside the wards."

Harry spotted the movement too and crouched low behind some bushes to watch. At first he assumed it must be some sort of wildlife, but as he sat and watched a small, nimble-footed goblin crept from the undergrowth. Sword in hand, long nose twitching as he sniffed into the air.

He was a little taller than the goblins of Gringotts and rather than their immaculate uniforms, he wore heavily studded leather armour. His dark eyes, narrowed to slits, darted back and forth, his brow crumpled in a frown as he surveyed the ward before him.

Harry smiled as he realised that his handiwork was functioning exactly as intended. The smile dropped in an instant as the goblin cautiously, though without a hint of fear on his face, stepped through the ward. Harry reacted instantly, acting on instinct, before he'd even paused to consider the outcome.

He leapt forward, the sword of Gryffindor flashing out in a stroke toward the goblin's neck. It connected before he could move, before he could voice surprise, or even change his facial expression. The goblin crumpled instantly and lay still on the ground and Harry stood, watching in disbelief as the life ebbed out of its dark eyes.

Blood, hot and thick, flowed across the ground, staining the soles of Harry's trainers. And Harry, overwhelmed by the pointlessness of it and the cheering charm, laughed until his ribs ached.

He then spent the rest of the morning trying to think of anything other than the little broken body only a couple of feet away.

As the sun peaked over the forest canopy and the first gleaming beam of sunlight, the resonating sound of a single drum echoed through the forest. The sound hung for a second, then was joined by another drum and then another and another until the entire valley shook with the endless crash of drums.

"The goblins are going to war," said Sternley, his tone grim. "First stop here, I imagine."

"You still think they're going to sap the wards?"

"Almost certainly. You still want to do this? It's not too late."

"I do," said Harry, resolutely. "Lets make them rue this day."

Sternley laughed as Harry swept him up and placed him on his head. The pair of them climbed into the car, which had been refitted with panels and re-charmed. They'd strapped huge sharpened wooden stakes across the bonnet and fitted the inside of the driver's door with a handily accessible rack on which the sword of Gryffindor hung.

It wasn't long before he heard the approach of the goblins. They came whispering and scuttling through the forest like leaves on the wind. A swarm of ugly little creatures, garbed in full battle regalia and armed to the teeth with swords and spears and war-hammers. But it wasn't just goblin warriors that made up their numbers; there were a scattering of human shapes among them where vampires and werewolves had joined forces with them. With them too, bound in thick chains and snarling angrily, were trolls, each of them larger than the one Harry had faced in his first year.

Several goblins, dressed in long flamboyant robes and bright blue tattoos on their green skin, came forward bearing cubes of beautiful crystal.

Harry knew they were ward-sappers, not because he'd seen them before but because Sternley had been unusually verbose when describing them. They were exactly as he'd said; beautiful. They were perfectly crafted, without any sign of a tool imprint, or even slight imperfection on their translucent, pearly white, opalescent surfaces. They caught the sunlight like nothing else on earth and patterns danced across them, all bright blues, pinks and yellows.

These goblins, well versed in the ways of the magic of their own kind, came right to the edge of the fragile wards that Harry and Sternley had erected. They lifted their long spindly hands and brushed them over the surface, where lightning spider-webbed and hissed against their fingers.

Harry knew that from their perspective, they would only see an area of thick black fog. But without further ado, they each held out their little crystal boxes and as they touched the wards, the lightning that had gently brushed their fingers began to arc violently and powerfully against the box.

It was a testament to the phenomenal amount of magic being manipulated that Harry actually had some inkling of it. Like flying for the first time, but far more subtle or like the smile of a friend, but far more pronounced. It was inexplicable, breathtaking and beautiful.

Sternley gave him the signal and Harry activated his dunn bind, which 'pulled the tablecloth' on the second set of ward stakes he'd added the night before.

It happened in an instant; the goblins weren't expecting such a powerful flood of energy and each of the ward-sappers exploded into a million razor-sharp pieces, shredding the goblins holding them, as well as several others, to ribbons.

Utilising this momentary distraction, Harry turned the key in the ignition to start the levitation charm and hammered down on the accelerator. The car lurched forward with a bang and then roared to life. Harry gave another great bellow of laughter, though he wasn't sure if this was nerves or the cheering charm that still exerted influence on him.

The Anglia flew through the remains of the wards and hit the goblin front lines with a crash like a peal of thunder. Helmets, shields and various weapons took to the air in fleeting flight, before tumbling down on the goblins like enormous, lethal raindrops. The sharpened stakes tied to the bonnet of the car almost immediately shattered against the goblin wrought armour and the splinters added to the hailstorm of deadly projectiles flying through the air.

For just a second, the world through the wind-shield was an incoherent picture of wildly flailing goblins and flying armaments. Faster than he'd expected Harry sensed the car begin to slow, the sheer number of goblins pushing back against his charms. Instinctively, he pulled back on the gear-stick and the car took off.

Suddenly free of the suffocating crowd, the car lurched forward, the nose tilting upward in a bid to head skyward. But the canopy was too thick for Harry to risk breaking through and so he forcefully threw the car downward again, smashing once more into the crowd of goblins.

Who, this time, were prepared.

Spells, stones, arrows and a number of small boulders crashed into the car in a blur of light and sound.

"How are the shield charms holding—" began Harry, but was cut off as a bright purple curse smashed through the back window, flew the entire length of the car and blew the entire wind-shield out in a shower of broken glass.

Harry and Sternley exchanged a momentary glance of mutual terror and astonishment, then Harry heaved the car skyward once more.

But the goblins were prepared for this too, a number of them, either more nimble or wary than the others, leapt for, and held on to, any available handhold. Soon enough they were beginning to climb all over the car, banging on windows, fumbling with door handles and trying to stab down through the roof. Harry weaved slightly, trying to shake them free, but they hung on with dogged determination.

Before he even had time to register the threat, he caught a glimpse of a swinging war-hammer in the corner of his eye and the driver's side window burst inward, peppering his face with glass. Harry lifted the fire-stick from his lap and directed it out of the window where it exploded right in the face of his foe, blowing him, flailing and smouldering, from the door.

Blood streaming from a dozen cuts on his face, Harry hammered the accelerator and directed the car through an almost solid copse of trees, losing a wing mirror as they passed between two enormous oaks. But the trick worked and the twin trunks swept away the goblins still clinging to the wings. Abruptly and without warning, Harry pulled hard on the gear-stick and the car roared up into the sky, bursting through the canopy and scattering goblins to the ground like ugly green snow.

Harry couldn't stop the exuberant whoop that escaped him, or the wild, reckless smile that found its way to his lips. Regardless of whether it was a result of the cheering charm or natural happiness to be in the skies once more, he just couldn't help himself. So rather than worry, he decided to throw caution to the wind and just go with it.

Harry turned the car into a barrel roll, laughing again, joy and pleasure coursing through him in equal measure. Just when it felt as though Sternley might fall from his head, Harry seized him and popped him on the seat next to him as they righted in the air. His face was stretched in a broad grin and clumps of his hair stuck up at even more crazy angles, where his blood had run through it.

"Silly slow goblins!" he yelled back at the tiny specks running between the trees below him. "You can't catch me!"

And as though in answer an enormous fireball hurtled past the car from above and crashed into the canopy below, setting the trees alight. Harry, cool as a cucumber, stretched an arm out of the window and lifted the wing mirror from where it hung limply against the side of the car. He angled it so he could see above and behind, and then, just as casually, he withdrew his arm.

"Dragons," he said, in a very matter-of-fact voice.

"Dragons?" asked Sternley in surprise from where Harry had placed him on the passenger seat.

"Dragons ridden by Goblins, to be precise," replied Harry, still seeming very unconcerned. "Do you think they know that this car broke six world records back in its day?"

"Did it really?" asked the hat, mimicking Harry's untroubled attitude.

"Yeah, I think Colonel Fubster told me that once. He likes cars, does old Fubster. Cars, dogs." Harry lazily spun the car wildly to avoid another fireball, while lost in his memories of his sole trip to Aunt Marge's house. "And Marjorie Dursley," he added as an afterthought. "I wonder what that says about her."

"Dragons," reminded Sternley.

"I don't think Fubster likes dragons."

"No, the dragons behind us."

"Oh yes, I thought I might be forgetting something," said Harry. He thought for a moment that he probably ought to be terrified, but he just couldn't find it in him. So instead he turned to Sternley with a sneaky grin. "You'd better put your seatbelt on."

"I don't have any arms," protested Sternley, then as Harry swung the steering wheel, he continued in a high-pitched shriek. "I DON'T HAVE ANY ARMS!"

Harry swept the car downward and spun it like a top and the two brilliantly green dragons followed, their wings tucked in and tails outstretched. Another two fireballs ripped from their mouth and grazed the car, once again setting light to the treetops below. Harry righted the car with a reckless flick of the gear-stick and yanked the steering wheel to the left, bringing them around in a tight circle the bulkier dragons couldn't hope to match.

"Harry you're going to crash into them," said Sternley, regaining some composure. Yet as the young wizard made no attempt to correct his course, panic flooded the hat's voice again. "HARRY YOU'RE GOING TO—"

The entire car shook as the ruined spikes at the front of the car grazed the dragon's tail, leaving no lasting impression, but annoying the dragon enough for it to jerk its head around and let loose another blast of fire directly at the car. Harry, as easily as breathing, rolled the car under the blast of fire, which caught the other dragon a stunning blow and knocked the two goblins riding it to their death.

Harry swung away again, heading downward, both dragons folded their wings in and all-but free-fell to keep up with his rapid descent. Two jets of fire thundered down at him, but Harry was equal, shimmying the car first to one side, then the other, avoiding each blast of fire in turn. He hammered on the accelerator, pulled the car upward, then abruptly turned completely upside down, doubling backward and corkscrewing the car crazily.

The dragons, with their bulky wings and large frames, weren't able to turn anything like fast enough and Harry whipped between them at top speed, before rolling the car once more and turning back once more, to find that his ruse had worked and that the two dragons had broken formation.

Popping up on the other side of the riderless dragon, Harry urged the car to match its pace and drew alongside its head. There was a split second where the dragon's enormous eye considered Harry with a great deal of surprise and then Harry reached out of the driver's window and punched the creature solidly in the face.

The vast creature gave a furious roar and spun to send another jet of fire at the car, which Harry avoided with a showy loop.

"Was that really necessary?"

"Well it means when I tell this story I can say 'Hey, I beat off a dra—'" Harry paused mid-sentence and then his cheeks coloured slightly as he realised what he'd said.

He might be twelve years old but— well— he was twelve years old, not stupid!

"You what?" asked Sternley, teasingly as Harry swept to one side to avoid a fireball.

Harry turned and gave him a very serious look.

"You mention this to anyone and I will use this sword as a hatpin."

"Touché," responded the hat.

Harry flung the car in another loop, partly to avoid the jet of fire that whipped by and partly to conceal his embarrassment. The manoeuvre brought him straight down on the other dragon. This time, however, he gave the slightest of pauses, then reached out and flicked a switch on the dashboard. The stakes that he and Sternley had rigged behind the headlights thundered out of the car and straight toward the dragon. Though they shattered on the creature's scales, a long sliver of wood buried itself through the dragon's hide and into the flesh beneath.

The dragon whirled, roared and then fell out of sight, slipping beneath the canopy in a hail of broken branches and fire.

The other dragon, still baring its burden of goblin riders, pulled away from the chase and for a moment, Harry thought they were giving up and retreating. But instead they rose high into the air, flew past overhead and forced Harry to avoid another blast of fire.

Once again, Harry had the strangest feeling of fear in his stomach, but it was as though it were affecting him from miles away, not really a part of him. And then on top of it, layering itself upon the fear, was an incredible happiness and an overwhelming excitement.

"They're going to double round and come head on," said Harry, eyeing them discerningly. It was the sort of tactic a Slytherin beater would use and while it lacked all subtlety, it would doubtless be effective when you were riding several tonnes of fire-breathing lizard. "Know any good spells for such an occasion?"

"Most spells won't pierce their skin," replied Sternley.

"Well that's useful," retorted Harry in a mocking voice. "Very useful, why don't you go ahead and list all of those spells that you know won't help us?"

"Well there's the tickling charm—" began Sternley in a sarcastic voice, but Harry tuned him out and his brows folded in concentration.

"Sternley," he said, cutting across the Sorting Hat. "If I don't survive this, I don't want you to blame yourself. Go on without me. Make your way in the greater world."

"I am a hat," said Sternley.

"That's great. Be proud of it," said Harry, not really paying much attention. "Buy a farm, have lots of hatty children with Mrs. Hat."

"Harry," warned Sternley as the dragon finally circled around and dropped into a path that would take them into a head on collision.

"Don't ever feel like you've got to some how make up for my heroic sacrifice by being noble or something stupid," continued Harry. "Instead, live your life to the fullest. Or something. Do all the things I ought to have done."

"HARRY!" yelled the hat as the dragon drew within twenty feet.

And in that moment, Harry wrenched the Sword of Gryffindor from its resting spot in the door, hurled the car up and to the left and plunged the blade out of the window.

The blade missed the dragon by millimetres, but instead sliced straight through the leather straps that held the large saddle in place. The goblins immediately tipped to one side, still clutching the reins and the dragon veered away, spinning completely out of control and finally making the plunge into the thinning forest below.

Harry righted the car and replaced the sword with complete nonchalance. He turned with a sombre expression to Sternley, then he burst out in exuberant laughter.

"Did you see that?!" he yelled, still laughing and spun the car in another barrel roll.

"Yes, yes," said Sternley, chuckling despite himself. "Very good, now stop trying to kill us both and—"

The hat broke off and his gaze became locked on something in the distance. Harry, his expression a puzzled frown, followed his stare and then gave a groan of bleak dismay.

A hundred or more broomsticks and their riders floated in the distance at the very edge of Valbonë forest, their wands were drawn and Harry could tell, even at this extreme range, that it was not a welcoming party.

"HARRY POTTER!" came what Harry assumed must have been a magically enhanced voice. "THIS IS THE ALBANIAN MINISTRY! REDUCE SPEED AND RELINQUISH YOUR WAND!"

Harry's hands tightened around the steering wheel. They'd planned for the goblins, but not a hundred extremely angry Albanian aurors. He had no idea how they'd gotten here so quickly, but he knew in that instant that he wasn't prepared to give up now. He frowned and relaxed his grip.

"How's he done the voice thing?" he asked Sternley.

"Sonorous charm," said Sternley. "Usually you'd tap your throat with your wand and say 'Sonorous'. But you ought to be able to manage it easily enough with your technique."

Harry did as Sternley bade, twisting his magic and combining aspects of other spells to mimic the effect he desired. On his third attempt, he felt a strange sensation in his throat, as though he'd tried to swallow far too much mashed potato.

"Hello," he said in the barest whisper and winced as it carried like a bellow.

He gazed at the rapidly nearing Albanian wizards and tapped slightly on the brakes to reduce the speed of the car, then took a deep breath.

"ALBANIAN MINISTRY!" he roared. "THIS IS HARRY POTTER. MOVE ASIDE OR I'LL EAT YOUR CHILDREN."

This didn't seem to gain the desired effect, if anything it had the effect of bringing the wizards closer together as they discussed his words, clearly trying to understand the threat.

"NO I'M SERIOUS," roared Harry. "IF YOU DON'T MOVE, I'M GOING THROUGH YOU."

Again the Albanian wizards neither seemed worried, or particularly to have understood what it was that he said. Harry sighed, shrugged and punched at the accelerator with his foot, the car shot forward like a rocket.

"WELL DON'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YOU!" boomed Harry at the top of his voice.


	24. Chapter 24

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë**  
**Chapter Twenty Four**

The car streaked through the air like a pale blue thunderbolt. The grouped Albanian fliers watched it with obvious bemusement as it hurtled toward them. Even Harry had to admit that they must make quite an odd sight.

The car had been a wreck even before the tussle with the dragons and two enormous fire-breathing lizards certainly hadn't helped matters. Most of the bodywork had fallen away, possibly thanks to Harry's inexpert mechanical tinkering and that which hadn't was scorched, blistered and peeling from the dragon fire.

The rear tyres still burned persistently, despite the incredible speed they were travelling at and the rubber belched thick black smoke behind them. All of the windows, with the exception of the windscreen which had miraculously survived, were either missing or covered with spider-webbed cracks where the goblins had struck at them.

And most worryingly the car had developed a strange limp on the right side, meaning that Harry couldn't fly it straight without it lazily rolling clockwise.

"C'MON, C'MON" roared Harry under his breath.

"Harry, I think you should—"

"DON'T WORRY," whispered Harry, his voice echoing through the car like a peal of thunder. "THEY'LL MOVE FIRST. THE BAD GUY ALWAYS CHICKENS OUT."

"Harry, I think you'll find in this case they're the good guys," said the hat.

"STERNLEY, IF LISTENING TO TV AT THE DURSLEYS' HAS TAUGHT ME ANYTHING, EASTERN EUROPEANS ARE UNIVERSALLY TERRORISTS AND EVIL."

"I don't think—" began Sternley, but his voice was drowned out by the enormous bang that shook the car as Harry punched the invisibility button.

While not exactly turning the car invisible, the entire thing did fade away into a strange mottled blue, rendering it much harder to see against the sky. Or it would have, if the tyres were not still belching out acrid black smoke behind it.

"Harry, these are trained Albanian hit wizards, they're not stupid, they're obviously going to use—"

"ARESTO MOMENTUM?" asked Harry with a cunning grin and in a booming undertone.

Sternley pulled an odd face.

"You didn't manage to get it working?"

"I TOLD YOU THE TWINS WERE—" he began and winced as he almost deafened himself, he gesticulated wildly at his throat.

"Quietus," said Sternley.

"QUIETUS!" bellowed Harry. "HAS THIS— QUIETUS! QUIETUS! OH FOR— QUIETUS!"

They were now within striking distance of the Albanian hit wizards, who raised their wands in preparation. The one at the front, who Harry had assumed was the leader, flicked his wand toward the car and a flash of almost invisible blue light flew from the tip.

Harry ignored it and was instead occupied himself with poking his throat with his wand in a desperate attempt to return his voice to a normal level.

"QUIETUS! QUIETUS! QUIETUS!"

"Harry," said Sternley nervously, as the bolt of blue light grew closer. "Harry, you probably need to look out for that— LOOK OUT FOR THAT SPELL!"

Harry glanced up just as the blue light struck the car and a wide grin spread across his face. Instead of slowing the car down, as the spell ought to have done, the car seemed to split in three, producing two two identical chameleon charmed replicas, one on each side of the original. All three cars, each billowing an identical smoke trail, hurtled at the slightly more alarmed Albanian hit wizards, who looked a bit nonplussed by this latest development.

Even Sternley looked completely befuddled— this pleased Harry very much.

Another hit wizard hit the car on the left with Stopping Charm, which in turn produced two more cars from thin air, leaving five cars now hurtling at their confused line of wizards on brooms. The leader of the Albanians at this point seemed to lose his head and decided to begin throwing the charm all over the place until the sky was full of semi-invisible, smoking cars.

"FANASTIC!" declared Harry happily, then raised his wand. "INCAGREIA!"

With this spell, each of the replicated cars burst from their original direction and flew in different directions. Some corkscrewed into the sky, some nose-dived toward the trees, some flew crazily at the hit wizards, some crashed straight into each other but most flew wildly around, deftly avoiding everything in their path but becoming a complete nuisance.

But here, Harry was in his element. For as chaotic as the scene before them was, he found the order in it. An expression of extreme, blissful concentration on his face, he found the gaps between the wildly flying cars and whizzed between them.

The Albanians, apparently getting over their shock, took it upon themselves to begin shooting the cars from the sky with a variety of spells which seemed to have wildly varying results. Some seemed fairly effective, while others produced dozens more clones and others still had no visible effect.

However, none of this even began to faze Harry who flew effortlessly between car and broomstick alike. The few spells that were directed at him he easily avoided and in almost no time at all, he was beating a hasty retreat toward a clear blue sky, with only a few straggling riders chasing him.

"DO ME A FAVOUR STERNLEY," whispered Harry. "AND SEE HOW MANY I'VE GOT ON MY TAIL."

Without looking around, Harry lifted Sternley above the height of the headrest and allowed the hat to look backwards.

"Nine," said Sternley.

"FEWER THAN I EXPECTED," admitted Harry. "GIVE ME A HEADS UP IF THEY'RE ABOUT TO CURSE ME?"

"Two incoming," replied Sternley. "But I think one is a stopping charm."

"BETTER SAFE THAN SORRY!" said Harry and whirled the car in his standard bludger avoiding pattern; a lopsided figure of eight that kept him moving forward as much as possible. "HOW CLOSE?"

"Hundred meters or so," replied Sternley. "Though it's really hard to tell when you're moving this quickly and this high up."

Harry risked a glance in the rear-view mirror and nodded.

"CLOSE ENOUGH," he bellowed and hit a small button on the steering column.

The boot of the Anglia flew open and a huge cloud of sawdust streamed behind them, billowing out into the sky. The front two of the nine riders stood no chance of avoiding it and were into the cloud before they could react. Though it had been designed merely as a diversionary tactic, it proved far more effective than Harry or Sternley could have anticipated and the pair of Albanians struck each other in mid air and plummeted to the ground. Another one of the chasers fell away from the pursuit to catch them.

Harry gritted his teeth and turned the car upward, heading straight into the sun. The fliers behind him followed his trajectory just in time for the pile of logs that were also in the boot to come tumbling out at them as well.

The logs proved far less effective and merely broke up the fliers formation somewhat as they swung around to avoid them, but it gave Harry time to level the car out and put some more distance between them.

"JUST SIX RIGHT?"

"Yeah, but one of them is closing on us."

"HOW CLOSE?"

"Fifty yards?"

A jet of red light zipped passed the car as if to emphasize his point. Harry swung the car to the right, allowing the Albanian flier to cut the corner and draw level with the car. Harry slowed the car slightly and, keeping his hand in his lap, levelled his wand at the window.

The hit wizard drew level with the window, his wand already in motion, performing a curse. But Harry was also prepared and his disarming curse was an infinitesimal amount quicker than whatever complicated magic the Albanian had attempted.

For a second the man's dark eyes were brightly illuminated by the bolt of red light then the wizard, broom and wand went in three different directions. The Albanian plummeted to earth, forcing another Albanian to chase him and the broomstick while the wizard's wand flew in through the window and struck Sternley on the tip of his peak. Harry turned an apologetic grin toward him.

"SORRY ABOUT THAT!" he said, as meekly as he possibly could.

"No problem at all," replied Sternley, in a sarcastic voice. "You feel free to hit me with anything you like."

Harry wheeled the car away from the remaining five pursuers, banking it sharply to expose the underbody and absorb a handful of curses that had been aimed at them.

"HEY STERNLEY," roared Harry. "WHEN I SAY, TELL ME THE FUNNIEST JOKE YOU KNOW."

"What on earth for?" replied Sternley.

"JUST DO IT," replied Harry, shaking the windscreen with his voice. He turned the car again into a sharp left turn that brought them around to head straight at the Albanian hit wizards. "NOW!"

Sternley gave him a look that clearly questioned his sanity, but complied nonetheless.

"How do you turn a fox into an elephant?" asked Sternley, with a surprisingly bitter inflection.

"I DON'T KNOW, HOW DO YOU TURN A FOX INTO AN ELEPHANT?"

"Marry it."

For a second nothing happened, while Harry tried to digest the joke, then he turned a withering expression upon Sternley.

"DON'T GIVE UP YOUR DAY JOB," he roared.

"I'm a hat, not a comedian."

Harry shrugged then turned back to the matter at hand. He faced the quickly approaching Albanians and opened his mouth wide.

"HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA," he roared, his fake laughter hardly convincing. "MORE SOULS FOR MY EVER GROWING COLLECTION!"

Despite what he or, from the looks the hat was giving him, Sternley thought of his acting, the Albanians clearly hadn't noticed that Harry wasn't going to be winning awards any time soon. Faced with the prospect of going head to head with a clearly psychotic young man who'd already gotten the better of the other ninety-six wizards sent to capture him, they broke ranks and fled.

Harry made a slight pretence of chasing them, but the moment they were at a safe distance, wheeled the car around and started heading toward the ground. Harry had to admit that he had very little idea of where they were, or what they were going to land on and assumed Sternley had no better coherent picture of Albanian geography and so merely decided to set the car down wherever he could.

Despite his best intentions and effort though, the car once again gave up at the final hurdle and the levitation charm failed as they were still fifty feet in the air. It spluttered back to life once or twice and then completely faded away, leaving them both free-falling through the air.

"AH," bellowed Harry, startling nearby birds into flight. "ARESTO MOMENTUM?"

Ten seconds later, the windscreen filled with a view of tree-tops, the car crashed down with an almighty bang and everything went dark.

**A/N: So I guess Harry is finally out of the woods. See what I did there? I'm a comical genius me. Also, remember when that Weasley twin trick was introduced in the first chapter? You do right? That my friends, is called foreshadowing, it's what makes me all literary and junk. Also want to say an enormous thanks to Bill Door, Crash, Gambit and TheImportanceOfLungs (You can find him at fanfictionnet/~OnTheImportanceOfLungs - he's an incredible writer) who helped me out with the last two chapters (and the next one) ages and ages ago and whom I never actually got around to giving props to. Hope you're all enjoying reading and I'd love to hit a thousand reviews before the 14th of August, when this story will be a year old. I know I'm never going to achieve it, but a boy can dream! Seriously though, a review would be really super. **


	25. Chapter 25

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë**  
**Chapter Twenty Five**

When Harry awoke he was freezing, his teeth were chattering and his head was throbbing with pain. He realised, with annoyance, that he didn't just yet have the capability of moving, so while he waited for his body to catch up, he took a moment to assess his situation. He was submerged up to his waist in icy water, in a ruined car that seemed to be producing a dull wail that echoed around his already aching cranium. However it wasn't just his head that throbbed with pain, his entire body was a bag of cuts, contusions and jarred joints.

Falling backward into the seat seemed to alleviate the annoying sound that filled the air and belatedly Harry realised he'd been leaning on the horn, his face pressed into the steering wheel. He gave a little sigh of pain, magically amplified by the charm he'd been unable to dismiss, that echoed around his head like a gunshot, bringing a fresh wave of winces.

As his brain slowly began to regain some ability to work cohesively again, he looked around himself, drinking in the surroundings.

He appeared to have crashed into a lake of some sort and muddy brown water was gushing through the open windows and the numerous holes in the car's underside. Around him was what appeared, to Harry's dismay, to be another forest. Which, if he was honest, was exactly the last thing he wanted to see right now.

He leaned across the car and put his head under the water, groping around in the passenger footwell until his fingers closed around something below the surface. He pulled it clear and watched in amusement as Sternley spluttered angrily, water dripping from the sodden mess that had once been the Sorting Hat.

"I can't believe you did that," moaned Sternley, shaking himself slightly in an attempt to get dry. "I mean why would you put me in the footwell?"

"I'M SORRY!" boomed Harry and immediately winced again.

"For Merlin's sake boy, Quietus! Kwai-Uht-Us! Pronounce the 'uht' stronger than the 'us'."

"QUIETUS," enunciated Harry as he directed his wand at his throat.

He concentrated with all his might, focusing his wand toward his neck and little by little began to feel the tendrils of magic that made up the charm peel away.

He coughed as the last vestiges of the magic slipped from his body and he was relieved to note that he sounded vaguely normal again.

"Much better," he declared happily. "Tergeo."

Sternley seemed slightly mollified by Harry's new ability to speak at a normal tone. Possibly too by the fact that Harry's spell removed a vast quantity of dirty water from his fabric. Another flick of Harry's wand pushed the driver's side door open and Harry waded to shore. Managing to hold the sword, his wand, his wolf-skin cloak, his firesticks and Sternley out of the water as he did so. It proved no mean feat.

When they eventually floundered to shore, Harry quickly stripped his wet robes off and lay them over a branch to dry. Then he turned to get a good look at the surrounding area. He realised, with relief, that he was not in fact in the middle of a forest, but merely amongst a small group of trees gathered at one side of an enormous lake.

"We shouldn't linger too long," said Sternley, from his vantage position on Harry's head. "You've given both the goblins and the Albanians a black eye and a bloody nose but it won't keep them off our backs for long."

"You think the car's fixable?" asked Harry, turning back to it.

"Possibly," replied Sternley, though with obvious reticence. "But I think we ought to choose a moment when we're not about to have every auror and goblin in Eastern Europe simultaneously descend upon us."

Harry glanced at the car and immediately realised that Sternley's assessment was indubitably correct. The Anglia was sunk half way into the lake and seemed to be slipping deeper by the second. That, combined with the fact that there were probably more pieces of the car strewn across Albania than there were still attached to it, left it in a sorry state.

Harry nodded his agreement.

"You should probably try and pull it out of the lake though," said Sternley. "Otherwise it'll disappear forever."

"Do, or do not. There is no try," observed Harry wisely.

He promptly lifted his wand, added the necessary swish and flick that Hermione was so fond of and removed the Anglia from the lake. It came softly to rest on the grass between them, muddy brown water and green slime oozing from between every nook and cranny.

"Should I hide it?" asked Harry, gazing miserably at the wreck of his beloved car.

"Why bother? Any auror worth his salt will find it and you know they're going to confiscate it."

Harry nodded glumly, but then something occurred to him.

"Will Mr. Weasley get in trouble for this?"

"Don't see why he would," said the hat. "He's already been punished once, I don't see how they can have expected him to do anything about it this time."

Harry nodded again, still slightly gutted to be losing his car.

"I know I shouldn't," he said. "But I feel really bad. I was getting quite used to her."

"It was a good car," offered Sternley, but Harry knew he didn't really get it.

"Where do you think we go from here?" asked Harry.

"Honestly, I've no idea. Glancing back over what you saw in the midst of all that confusion, I think we went predominantly north, which would probably put us over the border with Montenegro. But I couldn't even give you an approximation of where. I only knew we were in Valbonë because it's so important, magically."

"In that case," said Harry, turning to face the river that fed the enormous lake. "I'm going to head up stream. It ought to take us to the mountains and I don't feel like being in a forest any more."

"Works for me," replied Sternley. "One more thing, no more magic once we've left the car. I suspect they'll start tracking us from here, but the last thing we want to do is alert the aurors and goblins as to our precise location."

Harry nodded and shuddered at the thought of goblins and Albanian wizards hunting him through the countryside. It was a horrible thought; to be prey.

The pair of them took quick stock of their resources — which amounted to precious little — and took a moment to clean themselves up, dry Harry's clothes and repair his shoes as they were looking slightly worse for wear. Then with a final salute to the Anglia, Harry began to walk.

The hike wasn't as arduous as Harry had quite anticipated. Though he could still feel the deep set physical exhaustion of the last couple of days, the blisters on his feet and the incessant drooping of his eyelids. Yet, everything he'd been through seemed to have overwhelmed him so much that he was able to drift through it in an almost trance-like state.

For much of the rest of the morning, Harry didn't speak, eat, drink or do anything other than walk. Indeed he was so out of it that when Sternley asked him what he thought of the mountain air, he started violently. Staring around in amazement he found that he was clinging to an almost vertical stone ascent with the sounds of a waterfall crashing by to his right. It took him several minutes to stop hyperventilating in panic and for Sternley to talk him to the top.

"You alright, Harry?" asked Sternley as the young wizard lay panting, stretched out across the large expanse of rock atop the cliff.

"Tired," admitted Harry, breathlessly.

"I'm not surprised," replied Sternley. "It's almost noon. There's a little mountain pool and stream over there, you can see where it meets the main river. You ought to go and have a drink and lie down beneath those trees while it's so hot."

Harry, agreeing more with Sternley than he'd ever let on, dragged himself over to the small copse of trees that jutted out of the rock. He lay on the mossy rocks beneath the shade and closed his eyes against the blinding sun.

"Hey, Sternley," he said, sleepily. "You'll wake me when the sun passes over, won't you?"

"Absolutely," replied Sternley and although Harry knew he was lying, he couldn't find the energy to care. "Go to sleep Harry."

"Mmkay," replied Harry, and let sleep take him.

When Harry awoke again, he could feel something cold and wet resting against his bottom lip. He reached up without opening his eyes, only for his hand to touch something cool and fleshy hovering above his face. He examined it with his fingers, prodding this way and that, in an attempt to discern precisely what it was. Before he could make any deductions however, he heard a flighty giggle and his eyes flew open in shock.

A couple of inches away from his face were the strangest eyes he'd ever seen. Where they ought to have been white, they were bright yellow and where there should have been a pupil and iris, there was just a dark slit. At first, Harry was certain that these must be the eyes of a cat, but a second later all that Harry felt was slack-jawed amazement as the owner of the eyes drew her face away. For Harry's gaze had fallen upon the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen.

She was about Harry's height, but that was where the similarities ended. Her skin was pale and fair, in stunning contrast to her bright eyes, and her hair fell away in deep red locks. Her features were sleek and exotic and she wore the widest of smiles that ended on each side of her face in tiny, wonderful dimples. Her lithe body was hidden beneath a filthy, shapeless white slip that was an awful lot like Dobby's pillow cases except that it was almost see-through which brought the slightest of colour to Harry's cheeks.

For a boy who'd never truly considered girls this way before, it was a startling eye-opener.

Her eyes — cunning, playful and mischievous all at once — gazed at him with obviously intelligent interest and though she was shaped and proportioned like a person, when she moved, there was an obvious feline grace to her figure.

"Hi," said Harry softly and sitting up slowly, not wanting to alarm her at all. "I'm sorry if this is your pond, I didn't mean to intrude."

"Not my pond," replied the creature, in a silkily soft voice ever so slightly coloured by an accent that Harry couldn't place. "Nobody's pond. What someone owns a pond? Does it own the earth or the sky or the breeze. Madness."

Harry gazed blankly for a minute and then couldn't help but laugh. He wasn't sure if this was just the way that the creature spoke, he knew from experience that magical creatures often had alien thought and speech patterns, or merely her unfamiliarity with his language. Oddly enough it was only after the creature smiled at him, the corner of her mouth turning up, a faint echo of his laughter, that he even considered that he ought to be alarmed. Surreptitiously, he moved his hand toward the pocket that contained his wand.

He felt a little embarrassed, especially considering the creature seemed friendly, but after all, he didn't know anything about her, or even what species she was. Then it occurred to him; Sternley would know. But then, Sternley had been oddly silent until this point. Had the hat fallen asleep too? He glanced around, looking for his friend and was greeted with his friend's obvious absence. He looked to the creature again, who stared back with obvious interest.

"I don't suppose you've seen a hat?" he asked, awkwardly.

"What's hat?" asked the creature, blinking in surprise.

"Uh, you wear it on your head to keep the rain off," he said, hopefully.

"What's head?"

Harry decided to try a different tact.

"He's about this tall," he gestured. "He's black, he talks when he shouldn't and his name is Sternley."

"Talks when he ought not to!?" exclaimed the creature, as though Harry was daft. "Who said who talks and who ought not to?"

"Well he's a hat," replied Harry, feeling slightly awkward.

"What's hat?" asked the creature and Harry felt like hitting himself on the head.

"Sternley," he said eventually. "His name is Sternley."

"Oh," said the creature. "The talking cloth."

"Yes!" exclaimed Harry, perhaps a little too violently, for the creature jumped, clearly startled. Harry winced. "The talking cloth. Did you see where he went?"

"Up there," she said, pointing up at the sky.

"He flew?" asked Harry in astonishment.

"He didn't flew, he cloth," she said again, as though he was thick.

"Cloth doesn't fly?" countered Harry quickly, grinning. "Who said who flies and who ought not to?"

The creature stared at him.

"He cloth," she said, very slowly and Harry let his face fall to the palm of his hand.

"How did he go up there?" he asked finally.

"Bird took Sternley to nest on top of hill," she said and pointed to the very top of the mountain. Harry balked when he saw quite how high he had to climb.

"Oh right, what kind of bird?"

"A birdy-bird."

Harry realised that he wasn't going to get much more out of her and so stood, lifted the sword from the mossy stone beside him and bent to drink from the pool.

"Wouldn't do that," said the creature quickly.

"Why not?" asked Harry, pausing a few inches above the surface.

"Birdy-bird crapped in it," she said, her eyes gleaming with mirth.

"Right," said Harry delicately, leaning backward and staring up at the sky. What had he done to deserve this?

"You go to find birdy-bird? I come with. I lead," she stated firmly and Harry smiled

"Thank you," he said. "I appreciate it."

"No thanks. No appre— No appreeshee—" she began, then, as she tried to pronounce the troubling word, made a face as though she'd just swallowed a bug. "No need. Birdy-bird crap on Ksheta too."

Harry stifled a laugh and then extended his hand.

"Your name is Ksheta?" he asked. "Well my name is Harry."

Ksheta examined his hand momentarily then took it in both of hers and licked it once with a long pink tongue that tickled Harry's skin. She released his hand and offered her own in its place. He repeated the gesture and she gave him an odd look of confusion, then scampered off, following the small tributary.

"Come, come," she beckoned, seeming excited to be moving. "Come, Harry, together we will climb the hill of peril and slay the birdy-bird!"

Harry, feeling much better after his sleep, turned to face away from the mountain. The sun was sitting just over the horizon and the dark clouds that hung above it were turning a deep orange. Harry stared at the sunset with a small, sad smile on his face and wondered where Hedwig was at this precise moment and how she'd gotten on delivering the letters.

Out there somewhere, perhaps just over the horizon, the Brotherhood of Goblins was preparing for a war the likes of which hadn't been seen for two thousand years. Nearby, surely, the magical governments of Europe were likewise preparing their forces, even if they'd prefer to barter peace.

More than a thousand miles away, Ron and his family would probably be sipping cool drinks in the front garden, they might even have the wireless on, listening for the latest quidditch scores. Hermione would almost certainly be poring over some sort of book. Hagrid would be tending to his pumpkin patch, bent double over his fork with sweat beading on his forehead.

And he? While the rest of magical Europe readied for bed or war, Harry Potter was climbing up a mountain called 'the hill of peril', with a creature he couldn't identify to kill a bird she couldn't name, to rescue a talking hat.

Just another average day in the life of The Boy Who Lived then.

"The hill of peril," snorted Harry. Then he turned his back on the view, adjusted the wolf skin cloak across his shoulders, and began to climb after Ksheta. "Why, just for once, couldn't it be called the hill of sugar quills and chocolate frogs?"

**A/N: **You guys are awesome. I think I got like a hundred and fifty reviews in the last day or so. You have no idea how much I appreciate that, it's really cool of you all. Major thanks to Shezza, who pimped out my story. If you don't know who Shezza is, you're probably living under a rock, but the profile is at fanfictionnet/~Shezza88 and there you'll find hands down one of the best Fanfiction series ever. His writing and imagination is incredible. Also props to TbD who reviewed every chapter (I don't recommend you do, but it was freaking awesome), Wyrd, who went through loads of my old chapters and pulled out mistakes that I'll be correcting and 'An' who has some of the most entertaining reviews I've ever read. Final thanks to Bill Door again, because he went to town on this chapter and everyone at DLP who tossed suggestions and corrections at me. Much love :3


	26. Chapter 26

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë**  
**Chapter Twenty Six**

"I don't mean to be rude," said Harry, scuffing his shoes for the thirtieth time in approximately two seconds. "But what are you?"

Ksheta paused to consider this, her vibrant red hair catching the waning sunlight and glowing like hot coals. Her skin was still pure and white, while Harry's was now stained with dirt and dripping with sweat. Her lips twitched into the slightest ghost of a smile, as though she were thinking of something else.

"I am Ksheta," she said, as though this would make everything apparent.

Harry sighed. "No, I mean, what species are you?" Harry could tell from the look on her face that he'd have to take a completely different tact. He pointed to his chest. "Human."

Ksheta smiled in comprehension, she pointed to her self. "Ksheta."

Harry sighed again, shook his head and increased his pace ever so slightly. Beautiful and fascinating though Ksheta was, she was hardly a sparkling conversationalist. It seemed however, that Ksheta didn't share his view, for a moment later she scampered along side him once more, keeping pace with an easy grace that Harry completely lacked.

"Where you from?" she asked.

"England," replied Harry, slightly taken aback by her sudden curiosity. "A school for wizards and witches."

"Ahh," sighed Ksheta. Harry quietly wondered if he'd ever heard a more beautiful sound. "We Zana were once great friends with wizards and witches."

Harry nodded quietly to himself, somehow they'd gotten there in the end. She was a Zana, whatever that was. He couldn't even be sure that they'd have been called the same thing in England, but it was at least nice to put a name to her species.

"Once?" asked Harry. "Not any more?"

"Old days. Only few Zana now."

Harry nodded in understanding, offered a weak smile and scrambled up a small section of scree that seemed hell bent on resisting him all the way and sent a shower of small stones pouring down on his head. When he finally reached the top, his arms ached, his body trembled and he was close to weeping with exhaustion. He saved his tears and sat at the top, taking a moment to take a deep breath and regain some strength to plough on.

"Where are you from Ksheta?" he asked, gently massaging the dull pain from his arms.

He watched as she made a vague gesture with her hand, sweeping it around to encompass all of the view. Below them the majestic swathes of trees were stained pink by the setting sun. Beyond the woodlands were more mountains, majestic and craggy in the distance. Between the woodlands and the mountains, an enormous expanse of grassland opened out, inhabited by livestock and dotted with a handful of farm houses. The only sign of human life in the entire, beautiful landscape.

Harry grinned at Ksheta.

"Fair enough," he remarked casually. "Nice place you've got here."

Ksheta grinned back.

They climbed well beyond nightfall, one of Harry's firesticks gently lighting the way. What had started as a tiring hike up a steep slope, was now an exhausted scrabble up what seemed to be little more than a sheer stone cliff. He had begun the day with grass under foot, but now it was naked stone that met his feet and, more often than not, his hands.

Despite the dark, the world was alive with vibrant energy. Insects hummed, crickets chirped and owls swooped through the air, barking, hooting and whooping. Long ago, at least years, or so it seemed, the sun had set, stealing with it the warmth and comfort of the day. But still he climbed.

His fingers ached with the effort of pulling his own weight up the climb. Fresh sweat ran into his eyes with every movement of his tortured, protesting limbs. His muscles burned and screamed with each inch gained. His lungs and heart rolled in turmoil, even in the moments that he paused and leaned his throbbing face against the freezing rock.

All was not well with Harry Potter.

"The Hill of Peril," he muttered angrily under his breath, foolishly wasting what little breath he'd managed to keep in reserve. "The Mountain of Doom."

"Come on, Harry," said Ksheta, seizing his hand once more and dragging him, spluttering and protesting, a few more inches. "We must climb."

The climb didn't seem nearly so hard for her. She scrambled up the mountain hand over hand, showing all the deftness in the climb of a monkey. At no point had she broken sweat, been perturbed by a difficult handhold or apparently, knocked a single hair out of place.

"No," he said softly and sank to the ground again, pressing his forehead against the freezing rock and wishing it were cooler. "No, we must rest."

"You sleep now," replied Ksheta, her sing song voice cutting into Harry like a whip. "You may never wake up."

"That sounds good to me," confessed Harry, blinking tears or sweat from his eyes, even he couldn't be sure which.

Nonetheless, her words spurned him on, fighting hand over hand to climb the blasted hill. Only one thought in his mind — to reach the top of the hill and rescue Sternley. But his sweat dripped, his muscles ached and his pulse pounded through every fibre of his being.

The cold didn't come all at once. It was slow and insidious, stealing over him and creeping into his very bones with every foot he climbed. By the time he'd realised he was cold, his fingers had begun to leave bloody marks on the stone. Harry decided, finally, that he'd have to stop here and sleep. If only because they made the rocks slick in his grasp. He found a comfortable place to stop and wedged himself in tightly against the mountain-side. He looked down at his fingers, which were red raw, grazed and blistered.

"I can't go any further, Ksheta," he said, leaning his head back against the rock.

"You have gone very far," she whispered to him, barely audible over the incessant howling of the wind.

She examined him carefully, took his hands in hers and began to systematically lick his fingers. However strange and invasive it seemed, Harry was too tired to care and any protest he might have raised was instantly quelled by the softness of her touch and the cool, pleasant sensation of her tongue against the abrasions on his skin.

It was almost as good as Dittany, he thought, closing his eyes, just for a moment.

He felt the strange creature release his hands and press her body against him. Every inch of her skin was cool and smooth, but the act was one of compassion, of closeness, rather than an attempt to warm him. Or at least he thought it might be. He pulled the oik skin cloak tightly around them both.

"Tell me about wizardland," she said, sleepily.

Harry felt a wan smile creep on to his lips.

"Hogwarts," he corrected gently. "It's beautiful, though maybe not as beautiful as your home."

"You love it?"

Harry bit his lip and contemplated the question for a long while. Ksheta was silent, apparently content to wait for him to speak.

"I thought I did," he admitted and uttering the words was like lifting a heavy burden off his heart. "I have friends there, who I love and miss. And I used to love the place. I grew up with people that hated me and when I arrived at Hogwarts and had friends I thought everything would be better. I thought—"

His voice faltered and he belatedly realised that tears were running down his cheeks. He brushed them away and Ksheta pressed herself even closer to him.

"I thought I'd suffered through the worst of it," he continued. "I thought that once I was at Hogwarts, it'd be over. But it was even worse there. I had friends, but I had enemies too. I spent most of last year hated and despised. Then I almost died there and so I came here. And then I almost died here."

"Almost dying better than dying," observed Ksheta and Harry couldn't help but grin.

"That's true." A long silence descended upon them. Harry unsure what to say and Ksheta clearly content to say nothing. "Maybe you should sleep now."

"Okay Harry."

She seemed to fall asleep immediately, her breathing soft and even, each breath warm beneath his chin. Wisps of her hair tickled his face, bringing the slightest of smiles to his lips. He couldn't imagine sleeping despite his exhaustion. The rock was too uncomfortable, the night too cold, his body too stiff and racked with pain. But it was better than climbing and it'd give him the rest he needed to complete the journey in the morning.

In the end he did snooze a little, flitting in and out of stolen moments of unconsciousness. A voice spoke to him in his dreams, sometimes it seemed only occasionally, but other times it seemed constant and endless, but it was always incoherent and half-heard, as though spoken from a great distance away. Harry couldn't even be sure that it wasn't his own voice, manifested in his exhaustion, prattling inside his head.

He rose with the first pale light of day, gently laying Ksheta against the rock where she couldn't slip and fall. He was amazed by how light she was, how easy to lift, despite his own exhausted body. He remembered how easily she had climbed the mountain, how effortlessly she had pulled him up the tougher paths.

Magic, he supposed.

Harry shook his head and stood up, stretching his arms into the sky and twisting out all of the pain and tightness in his joints. Every single one protested at this movement, crunching and groaning as he worked them loose. Finally he glanced down at his fingers, fearing the worst.

In actual fact, he was pleasantly surprised. The skin, though still slightly discoloured, was no longer cracked and bleeding. They didn't ache quite as much as they had the night before, either. Harry had always healed fast, but he knew simply by looking at this wasn't natural. There were no scabs, no scars, no indication at all that his fingers had split or blistered at all. Whatever other magic Ksheta may or may not have possessed, it was clear to Harry that she had some talent with healing.

Harry let her sleep and watched, amazed, as the sun's light began to reveal the landscape below him. He was higher than he'd imagined, climbed further than he would have thought possible and the view was magnificent. The range of mountains he'd seen yesterday with Sternley seemed to stretch out forever, with rounded tops and deep valleys, the peaks protruding from the luscious green earth in an almost perfectly straight line in a wave of stone.

He felt Ksheta gently kick his leg and when Harry glanced down at the creature, she gazed back mischievously. Harry noticed with the slightest colouring of his cheeks, and not for the first time, that the beautiful little creature's choice of clothing left very little to the imagination.

He hurriedly looked away, forcing the thought from his mind and the colour from his cheeks. If Ksheta knew how she might affect an almost thirteen year old boy, she was clearly pretending she didn't, for without mention of his strange behaviour, she leapt nimbly up the side of the mountain, with nothing but an eager glance back down to him.

"Come on lazy," she said, grinning. "Long way to go now."

Harry nodded, reassured himself that he still had all of his possessions, and set off after her.

**A/N: I love you guys. Seriously. Thanks for the reviews, you have no idea how much it means :D Thanks again to my mate Bill Door, who beta's this. He's really awesome and I wish he wrote a story for me to plug, instead he'll just have to do with my undying gratitude. Someone pointed out that I'd made a goof earlier in the story by referring to Macedonia as an independent country north of Albania and although it is now, it was part of Yugoslavia prior to this, I'll go back and change it when I get a moment. Also, I have an awesome new book cover to replace the temporary one I stuck up, what does everyone think? (I love this new feature)**


	27. Chapter 27

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë  
Chapter Twenty Seven**

The climb in the morning was no less arduous than it had been the night before. Indeed, the higher they climbed, the colder it got, until Harry had to brush snow from each handhold as he found it. Sooner rather than later his hands were once more blistered and bleeding, but Harry pushed through it, even though it made everything he touched slick and slippery.

His teeth chattered from cold, his eyelids were heavy from lack of sleep and his entire body protested every movement. To his relief, even Ksheta began to find it difficult going. Her sluggish movements and heavier breathing proving that her strength wasn't endless. As they climbed, Harry tried his best to engage her in conversation, mostly to distract himself from the pain. He was interested to note that the more they talked to each other, the more coherent she became.

"Tell me about the Zana, Ksheta," he said, having just finished a half hour monologue on the benefits of the thief bind. Ksheta had admittedly had little to contribute to that topic of conversation.

"We are only few," she said, frowning up at her next handhold, as though it had grievously insulted her.

"Before that I mean."

They came to the base of a sheer cliff, one that made the almost vertical slope they'd been climbing look positively tame. It was thickly pitted and would have been easy enough to climb had his arms not been failing already. Harry rubbed blood from his hands on to his shirt, wishing that he were able to use his wand, or simply had a decent pair of gloves. They both took a deep breath and began to climb, each selecting a different path up the cliff.

"We were many," called Ksheta as she flung herself from an outcrop to a cleft, her lithe body swinging as she temporarily hung there. "Thousands. We lived here. We were strong, happy, content. We helped wizards and wizards helped us. It was peaceful."

"Then what happened?" asked Harry, as he hoisted himself upward, his arms burning in protest.

"Goblins," she said simply. "Zana had gold. Goblins wanted it. There was war."

"Between the goblins and the Zana?"

"Yes," she said, leaping once more and deftly catching a rock above her. "We lost. The wizards helped us, but too many goblins to kill. We saved the gold, but almost all Zana fell."

"I'm sorry," called Harry, wishing he could have spoken more softly, but the howling wind made any sort of spoken conversation impossible.

He looked up and could see the lip of the cliff. It was ever so slightly out of his reach and there weren't any handholds between him and it. He glanced down. He was faced with a choice, leap up and catch hold of it, or descend thirty feet and find another way up. He swallowed thickly. The ache in his arms told him he didn't have much strength left, he could already feel the muscles in his fingers give.

He knew he wouldn't survive if he tried to go back.

He swallowed again, judged the distance, balled up all of his strength, took a deep breath.

Just as he began to push up with his legs, his fingers gave out. He flew up in the air, scrabbling at the cliff face for any sort of purchase, but his fingers closed around air.

His stomach clenched and his eyes bulged as he began to fall. Everything seemed to take forever, as though he were living his final moments in slow motion. All the wind rushed out of him in a split second, making a noise somewhere between a scream and an exuberant whoop. The edge of the cliff seemed to inch away, just out of reach, the tips of his fingers brushing it ever so slightly as he fell downward.

And then he stopped suddenly, crashing face first into the stone cliff face. His nose cracked and a thin trickle of blood spilled down his front, the skin of his cheek and forehead split as they bashed against the rock, adding to the blood running down his face. His world was momentarily a jumble of confusion, colour and sensation. Then he felt something pull powerfully on his arm and he began to lever himself up the cliff with his hands and feet.

He came scrambling over the edge of the cliff and went head first into Ksheta, they staggered and fell together in a jumble of limbs, crashing down in the snow. Harry gazed down into her eyes and grinned, partially in relief, partially in embarrassment.

"Hi," he said awkwardly and rolled off her.

He lay on his back in the snow, utterly spent, not caring at all that the snow was soaking through his wolf skin cape and the cold was creeping into him. Ksheta began to laugh and Harry followed suit, those five seconds of anxious panic evaporating through his laughter and escaping into the pale blue sky.

Eventually, he pulled himself together and climbed to his feet. His body was as close to failure as it was possible to be. He wanted nothing but to lie down and be very still but knew that if he didn't move now, he wouldn't move again. He looked upward, toward the peak and for the first time noticed that the slope was far gentler here. The peak couldn't be far now, but was lost in a thick white haze that blew off the snow.

He took two handfuls of powdered snow and used them to clean the blood from his face and fight the swelling of his nose. He suspected that he probably looked as though he'd spent ten rounds with Goyle, but didn't care much. It was only his most recent in a long line of injuries. He began to stagger onward, up toward the peak, but stopped and turned when he realised Ksheta wasn't following him.

"I go no further," she said and there was obvious regret in her voice.

"Why not?" asked Harry and staggered back down the slope toward her.

"There are old laws," she said simply as Harry came to stand before her again. She lifted a hand to Harry's face and traced the outlines of the cuts on his face. "You are very brave."

Harry felt himself blush, but Ksheta ignored it and seized the lapels of his cloak in both hands. For a moment Harry thought she intended to kiss him, but instead she merely pulled his cloak forward to cover him better and straightened it on his shoulders.

"Perëndi would have liked you," she said. "You remind me of him."

Harry blinked.

"Who is Perëndi?"

"My love," she said and gave him a sad smile. "He died."

Harry blinked again, unsure quite what to say.

"I'm sorry."

This time she did kiss him. Her soft red hair brushing against his face as she leaned in. Her lips only touched Harry's for the briefest of seconds, but warmth and energy suddenly coursed through him, like he'd been struck by a lightning bolt. He wasn't cold any more, wasn't tired, his face no longer ached and his fingers felt whole and responsive. When they parted, Harry gazed at her, dumbstruck.

"Go," she said, her voice soft. She lifted her fingers to his face and smoothed his hair from his face. "Save your friend."

Harry swallowed thickly and nodded. He turned his thoughts from how soft her lips had felt against his and to rescuing Sternley. He grinned at Ksheta.

"Thank you," he said. "I hope I see you again."

"You will."

He turned his back on her then, turning to face the white mist that hid the summit from view. The energy her kiss had given him surged through his body, willing him onward and bringing the slightest of satisfied smiles to his face.

"Good bye, Ksheta," he said, not daring to look back at her.

"Good bye, Harry," she replied.

Harry drew his sword, noted that it felt light and keen in his hand, and pressed forward into the haze of snow. He glanced back only once, catching a glimpse of fiery red hair stark against the snow, before Ksheta was lost to the swirling mists.

He continued on through the blizzard, snow caught by the wind whipping up around him and blinding him to everything but the all pervasive white mist. He couldn't be sure how long or far he'd walked, only that it seemed like he'd walked for hours over miles and miles of snow. But for all he knew, he'd walked the same twenty steps around and around in the snow.

He only knew he'd reached the summit when he stopped climbing. By then just the lingering traces of Ksheta's kiss remained with him. A slight warmth in the depth of his body that stubbornly resisted the cold that had seeped back into him. Half blind, half frozen, completely spent, Harry collapsed to his knees in the snow.

He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he was nearer death than he'd ever been before. Knew that it had crept up on him unawares. He hadn't possibly considered, when he'd started climbing this mountain, that it might be the death of him. That he might freeze to death in the middle of summer.

He tried to climb to his feet but only fell face first into the snow. He lay very still for a long time. He lost sensation in his hands and feet first, then the infernal white that consumed his vision became grey as the world began to fall away. It didn't really feel like dying.

Harry pulled himself to his feet, anger suddenly coursing through him and fuelling him, spurring him up. He had thought like that in the Chamber too. He survived then, he would survive now.

He staggered around in a little circle, looking madly about. There had to be something here. There had to be some sign of Sternley, or his captor. There had to something.

And then, in the distance, through mists parted by driving wind he spotted it. A dark shape shadow out of the ground perhaps a hundred feet away. He staggered towards it, almost tripping over himself in his haste. He had absolutely no idea what he expected to find, but he knew that anything was better than dying here in the snow.

As he approached it, he heard a flurry of noise on his right and he turned, sword swinging wildly as he turned. An enormous eagle, at least three times the size of Hedwig, larger even than Fawkes, fell from the sky, avoided Harry's wildly swung attack and struck him in the head.

Harry staggered in the snow, scrabbled for balance, struggled to turn around and raise his sword as the eagle wheeled around for another pass. But this time, Harry was ready, the sword of Gryffindor already drawn and poised for the inevitable strike. Sword met beak in a shower of sparks. To Harry's amazement, to his astonishment, to his horror, it was the sword that gave way. The blade sheared in half on the sharp curve of the beak, the other end flying off into the snow.

Harry gaped, then sagged, feeling all the world as though it was a part of him that had been torn apart. However he didn't have have much time to register the loss of his sword before the bird doubled back again and with a beautifully precise movement, fell into a dive that struck Harry in the chest with all the weight it could muster.

Harry felt his feet leave the ground, his back arched as he rose up and backward, his entire body flying in a neat parabola, up from the ground and down into the snow, gasping as all of the wind was knocked out of him. He scrambled in his pocket for his wand, but the eagle landed on his chest and pinned his arm with one free talon. It's fierce amber eyes glared down at him, it lifted its head, opened its beak and Harry closed his eyes as he tensed for the inevitable strike.

"Don't be ridiculous," said the Eagle, hopping off him. Harry opened his eyes and gazed at it in amazement. "I'm not going to eat you, you great dope. Come inside."

The bird strutted away, toward the dark shape that Harry had observed earlier and as it walked, it began to change. Talons receded into booted feet, wings became arms. The entire body made a painful looking twist and when it glanced back, the amber eyes were housed in a human face that smiled down at him.

"Come on," he said, in a much softer voice. "The kettle's almost boiled and you look freezing."

Harry scrambled to his feet, clutching the hilt of his ruined sword between numb fingers and stumbled after him.

The dark shape Harry had noticed before turned out to be a little cottage, windows flickering with firelight and smoke drifting merrily from a chimney on the roof. It appeared to be comprised entirely of stone blocks that had to have been cut out of the mountainside and all four walls and roof appeared to be made with this singular material. There was no mortar, no trace of woodwork or anything else and yet the building stood.

Harry assumed it must be magic. Also obviously magical were the windows, which were empty of glass, but still managed to keep the snow from blowing in. It wasn't as though the snow was deflected in some way, the currents of wind that carried them just always seemed to take them clear, even when the wall around them were pelted heavily.

He shook his head, staggered through the empty door frame and into a brightly lit little room. A great fire roared in the centre of the floor and a three piece suite had been drawn up around them. Harry stared blankly at them for a minute, then walked further into the room.

His host didn't even bother to look up from the kettle that was whistling merrily away on the fire.

Harry stared around him in amazement. The single room reminded him strongly of Hogwarts. The stone walls were draped with tapestries, designed in an artistic style that Harry couldn't place, the furnishings were lush and warm. A great suit of armour stood in one corner, all gleaming steel and reflected firelight.

However, none of these things held any interest to Harry once he saw precisely who was sitting on a stool, only a few feet from the fire.

"Hello," said Sternley, the tear in his brim twisted into a happy smile. "Fancy meeting you here."

**A/N: Sorry the update was so delayed a couple of days, I got some bad news over the weekend and I wasn't feeling much up to anything but running (this is what I do in lieu of eating icecream) and reading. Thank you so much for my reviews, I adore you guys c: Hopefully another update tomorrow. **


	28. Chapter 28

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë**  
**Chapter Twenty Eight**

Inside and crouching by the fire, Harry's host was far better illuminated than he had been out in the snow. He resembled a man in his late thirties, with long dark hair that curled toward the ends and perhaps three days worth of facial hair that clung to his jaw and cheeks. His eyes were deep set and ringed with dark shadows while the rest of his skin was very pale and dry, almost like parchment. The man-eagle glanced up from the fire, to catch Harry's gaze. Then he reached out a hand, snatched up Sternley and threw him across the room. Harry caught him with deft fingers and, at the behest of a hand-signal from the strange man, placed the Sorting Hat on his head.

'You should be cautious,' came Sternley's voice in Harry's mind and Harry nodded almost imperceptibly.

'What is he?' asked Harry. 'An animagus like McGonagall?'

'I'm not sure,' admitted the hat. 'He's no animagus, his eyes didn't change colour.'

'And here I thought you knew everything,' joked Harry, his tone far more frivolous than he felt. 'My world view has been shattered.'

Sternley ignored the jibe, choosing not to respond. The man-eagle finally removed the kettle from the fire and poured a stream of scalding water into two cups. There must have been something already in the cups, for they turned brown. He lifted one in each hand and rose, offering one to Harry, which he took.

They stood for a moment in an awkward truce, Harry not sure whether he should drink and the man-eagle clearly expecting him to do so. Finally his host sat down in the arm chair opposite and his face cracked into a wide smile.

"Come, come," he said, beckoning Harry to sit down. "Sit, drink. If I wanted you dead, I'd have cut your throat in the snow. It's not poison."

"You can talk!" exclaimed Sternley angrily. "For the last two days I've been here you could have spoken to me."

"You didn't speak either," said the man-eagle, shrugging.

Sternley fell quiet, apparently conceding this point

Harry, for his part, considered and accepted Vocerr's point. It would have been simple work for that sharp, hooked beak to slice through his exposed flesh, it didn't make any sense to subsequently bring him inside and poison him. So he sat gratefully in the comfy armchair before the fire and took a sip of the drink, which was both delicious and warming.

"And to answer your question," continued the man-eagle. "I am a Zana. They call me Vocerr."

Harry merely blinked in response. Vocerr had just read his mind. Or at least, he suspected he had; he was almost certain that he and Sternley hadn't been speaking out loud. The Zana grinned at him, then drained his cup and leapt to his feet. Harry half rose, expecting to have to defend himself, but Vocerr flapped his hands, urging him to sit.

"I'll be right back," he assured them and disappeared out into the blizzard.

"Keep your sword handy," hissed Sternley, the moment Vocerr was outside. "You might need to fight."

Harry's mouth suddenly became dry and his throat seemed to closed up as he struggled for the words.

"Harry?"

"It's broken," he managed eventually and felt his face flush bright red.

At Sternley's silence, Harry's embarrassment completely overwhelmed him and he sank back deeper into the chair, wishing that it would just swallow him up. He'd managed to destroy one of the few remaining artifacts of the founding fathers. It hadn't even been his after all, he'd stolen it.

Sternley seemed utterly lost for words and Harry could feel the dismay emanating from his friend.

"Vocerr did something, his talons destroyed it," he said quickly, then sighed. "I'm sorry Sternley. Please don't hate me."

At these words the hat seemed to pull himself together. He shook his brim and his voice slipped into a confident, relaxed tone.

"No use crying over spilled milk," he said firmly. "Or broken swords for that matter. They can always be reforged."

Harry nodded in agreement, though it didn't make him feel any better.

"So what now?" he asked, ostensibly to take his mind off the sword.

"Hmm," responded Sternley thoughtfully. "Something has been eating at me about this Vocerr. As though there's some connection I haven't made—"

Vocerr chose this moment to return, striding nonchalantly into the room and dropping the other half of Gryffindor's sword on to a small table between their chairs. He resumed his old seat and grinned over at Harry.

"Sorry, I just had to go and tell the storm to shut up a bit," he said, as though this sort of thing was common practice.

For all Harry knew of Vocerr it could well be normal for him to go and talk to weather. Although, Harry frowned and craned around in his seat, the winds appeared to have tailed off, thick beams sunlight was gleaming through the windows and doorway, where before it'd been a wall of impenetrable snow.

"I'm afraid you rather irritated him," continued Vocerr, pouring himself another cup of the delicious drink. "He thought he'd gotten you. Even I suspected I might have the wrong man." He paused and gave Harry the once over again. "You are a little small for a hero," he remarked thoughtfully.

Harry frowned and said nothing, while Vocerr stared intently at him for a moment, then the Zana leapt up and threw his hands up in the air.

"I haven't offered you anything to eat!" he cried, as though his own skills as host were deplorable. "I've only got sausages, I'm afraid."

In this moment, Harry realised two things; firstly, he hadn't eaten since Valbonë and secondly, that he was absolutely starving. He'd begun salivating at the mention of sausages and it was all he could manage to nod his head vigorously. The Zana laughed in delight, produced an enormous quantity of long thick sausages wrapped up in brown paper from a chest in the corner of the room and descended upon the fire, toasting fork in hand.

"I always forget how much the trial exhausts them," he cried, flapping his arms around even more and nearly hitting Harry in the face with the sausages. "How hungry they get! How cold!"

Harry didn't quite know what to say to this, so he waited quietly for Vocerr while he cooked the sausages. In what seemed like half the normal time, he was happily munching away, savouring the sharp, spicy taste while Vocerr cooked, talked and flailed his arms around.

"You're the third one in the last two centuries," he was saying, as though Harry ought to have any idea what he was talking about. "I used to get four a week. Four! I can't afford that many sausages!"

At this proclamation, he looked up at Harry, who was half way through his fifth sausage.

"You don't talk much, do you?" asked the Zana, frowning slightly.

Harry shrugged.

"You're not still smarting from the beating I gave you? I'm sorry I attacked," he said with a wry smile. "Also for breaking your sword. But these things are rarely simple."

Harry didn't know what quite to make of any of this, though he did appreciate the apology and the sausages.

"I needed your help," continued the Zana. "Needed to fetch you here."

"For future reference, asking works just as well," Harry pointed out, then snapped his jaw shut.

However Vocerr seemed to take no offence, indeed, seemed rather pleased that Harry had finally deigned to speak.

"Would you have come if your friend were not in danger?" he asked. "Would you help if I did not break the sword?"

Harry frowned, partially because he wasn't sure if Vocerr was threatening him, or blackmailing him, but also because he though it was probably right. There wasn't any way that he would have come here if the bird had merely asked and he didn't much want to help it either.

"So what is it that you want then?" he asked and took another large bite out of a sausage.

"I have a snake in the nest," spat the Zana, suddenly sounding angry and appearing restless.

Harry looked around in astonishment.

"I don't see any snakes," he said. "Unless you're referring to me or Sternley."

"Not my house," snapped Vocerr irritably, as though Harry were being deliberately stupid. How was he supposed to know what Vocerr called his house?

"He means Albania," supplied Sternley, his tone clearly indicating that he'd just come to the conclusion. Harry felt his features fold into a frown.

"I don't understand."

"You don't need to understand," replied Vocerr, grinning broadly. He held out another sausage. "You just need to act."

"Act?" asked Harry, with a hollow laugh. "I don't even know what you're asking me to do. And why should I help you, anyway? Not after everything you've done."

He took the sausage anyway.

"I will reforge the sword," replied the Zana. "It is your duty to protect it."

The simple words were spoken with a such a quiet conviction that they rang through Harry's head like a gong.

And he was right, after all. Harry had stolen a priceless magical artifact and borne it across the continent. The sword was an integral part of Hogwart's history. It had belonged to a founder! He couldn't imagine facing anyone from Hogwarts if he returned without it. Especially not Snape or Dumbledore.

"He has a point, Harry," replied Sternley, his voice level.

But Harry could sense the excitement within the hat, the intrigue and the the thirst for adventure. Harry decided then that he'd clearly been a bad influence on Hogwart's sorting hat.

"What is it that you need me to do?" asked Harry, turning a stony expression upon Vocerr.

"Kill the snake," said the Zana, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Or drive him from these lands."

"Then you'll fix the sword?"

"You have my word."

"Alright, I'll do it," Harry agreed and the Zana leapt to his feet, all smiles and bustling energy.

"You'll be needing something then!" he cried.

He leapt to his feet and launched himself across the room, a half second later he was nearly upside down in an impossibly large chest, throwing all sorts of things out an onto the floor. He remained this way for several minutes, occasionally shouting for joy, before realising he hadn't found what it was that he was looking for and cursing angrily. Eventually he let out an exuberant cry of delight, straightened up and hurled something large and heavy across the room, right at Harry's face.

Instinctively, Harry reached out and caught it with both hands, even still it almost crushed him to the arm chair it was so enormous and weighty. It took him a good ten seconds to work out exactly what it was; an enormous sword in a brown leather sheath.

It perhaps would have been the right size for a fully grown man to wield with one hand, but even then he'd have to be tall and broad to do so. Harry was none of these things and he stared at the sword in blank puzzlement.

"It's a little big Vocerr," he said.

Vocerr looked at him forlornly. Even his endless enthusiasm couldn't argue with the fact that it was only about a foot and half shorter than Harry was tall.

"I did say you were short," admitted the Zana, eventually.

Harry ignored the insult and examined the blade ever so slightly. It was as different from Gryffindor's sword as it was possible for a sword to be. Rather than a straight blade with a crossguard and pommel, it was long and curved, with no crossgaurd to speak of. Instead, the weapon's ebony grip was flush with the blade and inlaid with beautiful patterns of silver. At the very end of the weapon the pommel was large, curved and was even more intricately worked with silver. A single amber jewel was set into centre of it.

He blinked as the design suddenly coalesced in his mind. He was looking into the face of an eagle.

He glanced up at Vocerr in surprise, who grinned broadly back at him.

"You like my sword?" he asked. "That blade was forged for me the day I was born. Here, come."

Harry stepped forward and Vocerr took the sword from him. He produced a belt that too had come out of the chest, from the look of it, Harry thought that this too would be far too big for him. But Vocerr didn't strap it around his waist, instead he looped it over Harry's shoulder and across his chest, buckling it through one of Harry's belt loops at his side.

He hung the sword from the belt across Harry's back, fastening the scabbard in two places so that Harry could draw it over the shoulder with his right hand. He adjusted Harry's wolf-skin cloak on his shoulders, just as Ksheta had done and then looked him up and down.

"A proper little warrior," he said, beaming.

Harry wasn't sure whether to take this as an insult or a compliment. He wasn't sure he liked being called a 'little' anything.

"I would have you stay the night and rest," continued Vocerr, turning away and beginning to pull more things from the chest. "But some things must be done with haste!"

He threw a few things into a bag and then flapped his hands at Harry, half chasing him through the front door of his house. At first Harry heeded his agitated dismissal, but a question abruptly occurred to him and he turned back to Vocerr.

"If you can reforge a broken, magical sword and best me so easily, why can't you deal with the snake? What is it that I can do that you can't?"

Vocerr looked at him as though he were stupid and then grinned once more.

"You climbed up here with Ksheta?" he asked.

"I did."

The Zana nodded.

"She always brings the cute ones." He smiled. "What did she say when you reached the summit."

"She said," began Harry, wracking his brain. "She said she cannot go any further. That there were old laws."

Vocerr nodded again.

"There are old laws that we Zana are bound by. Long ago, I was sent to this summit and trapped here. Not by walls or rope or steel, but by my Oath. I must remain here or become an Oathbreaker." He shuddered, as though this might just be the worst thing in the world. "This is my domain, until I am released from it. Just as the mountainside is Ksheta's."

Harry nodded, finished his final sausage and stepped out of the door.

"One last question," he said, looking back at Vocerr. "Why me?"

"You have knowledge of this snake," replied the Zana. "You have faced it before and walked away a champion. You must face it again."

Harry swallowed and nodded.

Because that could surely only mean one thing.

He would have to face a basilisk again.


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N - So yeah, I totally didn't take a 9 month break. ****Sorry! **If it's any consolation, this should update far more frequently now until we reach the end of the story, unless I actually drop dead or something.

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë  
****Chapter Twenty Nine****  
**

Vocerr saw them to the door, his amber eyes glittering merrily in the bright sunlight outside. The blizzard had almost completely subsided now, to be replaced with a perfect summer's day. Already the snow on the ground was beginning to melt, making the rock slippery underfoot. He handed Harry a bag, weighed down with a canteen of water and several loaves of bread. He placed one hand on Harry's shoulder and beamed down at him.

"If you travel almost directly south for two miles, you will come to a small village with a river. Follow this river east and you will come to a town called Bajam Curri, from there you will know where to go."

Harry nodded thoughtfully, then hoisted the bag on his shoulder and titled Sternley ever so slightly in his direction. He adjusted Vocerr's sword and belt and then turned to face the Zana.

"What's the name of the village?" he asked. "In case I miss it."

"Valbona," came his reply. "Valbona village."

Harry gaped at him.

"Valbona? As in the Valbonë Valley?"

Vocerr grinned broadly and nodded enthusiastically, apparently pleased that Harry had understood the point so quickly. Sternley let out a dull groan.

"How far are we from Valbonë?"

Vocerr's grin, if possible, got wider. He grasped Harry by his upper arm, pulled him around the house to the opposite side of the mountain he'd scaled and pointed out the valley below. Harry's stomach fell. He recognised the direction the river took through the trees, recognised the rocky outcrops that topped the long slopes. Even Sternley let out a low, guttural moan of displeasure.

"How the hell did that happen?" asked Harry.

"We must have been turned around during the fight with the aurors," replied the hat. "We ended up going in a big loop, almost doubling back on ourselves."

Harry sighed deeply.

"If it's any consolation," Sternley began. "It's the last thing anyone'll expect you to do. Heading straight back into Valbonë, I mean."

"What, because it's absolutely suicidal? Completely choked with swarming angry goblins who want nothing better than to cut my head off?"

"Precisely."

"I have to say, Sternley," said Harry, his voice as patient as he could make it. "That doesn't exactly reassure me."

"No, it doesn't reassure me either," admitted the hat. "Now that I come to think of it."

Vocerr, who had been an impartial observer of this conversation, suddenly patted Harry firmly on the back and gave him a little shove.

"Off you go," he chided and pointed out a general direction. "The village is that way."

"Thanks," replied Harry bitterly, hoisting his bag and setting off at the heading he'd indicated. "Thanks a billion."

Harry was met at the edge of the peak by Ksheta, who he thought, from the numerous apple cores sprinkled around the place, might have been waiting there the entire time he'd been talking with Vocerr. She leapt to her feet when she saw him and seized him in a strong hug that would have been more appropriate for someone you'd not seen in a year, not a couple of hours.

"My friend," she said, holding him at arm's length and beaming.

"Hey Ksheta," he said and indicated the Sorting Hat. "This is Sternley. Sternley, this is Ksheta."

"Ah," she said, adopting a knowledgeable tone. "The talking cloth."

While Sternley spluttered indignantly on his head, Harry began to descend the mountainside with Ksheta. The slope was gentler than the one he'd traversed on his ascent, but taller. This side of the mountain was very different though; a thick copse of pine trees left the entire side in shade and fallen needles carpeted the ground. Interspersed between the trees were bushes, each flowering with bright red blossoms.

Even from here Harry could smell the overpowering scents of their perfume that mingled pleasantly with the smell of the woodland.

Harry knew in a few minutes that he'd be trudging back into Valbonë, slipping between the pines on his way back to the river and hopefully creeping unnoticed through a horde of angry goblins.

But for now, he was perfectly content to walk in the sunshine, listen to the birds sing and smell the roses.

"Tell me about Vocerr," said Harry as they walked.

Ksheta shrugged.

"Not much to tell. He is very old."

"Well he can turn into an eagle. You could have warned me of that."

"I did," she said, then caught his look. "Maybe you misunderstood me."

Harry thought back to her improving use of language in the time they'd spent together.

"That's possible," he admitted, though he thought the onus was rather on her. "Can you turn into an animal?"

Ksheta shook her head.

"It comes with age, I am too young by far."

"How old are you?" asked Harry, half wondering if she might slap him. He didn't know whether it was as impolite in Zana society to ask such a question.

"Four hundred and three years old, six months and four days," recited Ksheta.

Harry gaped.

"How old is Vocerr then?" he asked, dumbfounded.

The Zana merely shrugged.

"Who can say?" she grinned at Harry, as though amused by his surprise. "How old are you?"

"Twelve." he said.

"Twelve hundred?" she asked.

"No, just twelve."

Ksheta turned an astonished expression on him, her mouth falling open.

"But, you can't be," she exclaimed, looking him up and down. "You're too tall and strong and powerful!"

These words brought a blush to Harry's face, but he felt the slightest glow at the compliment.

"We must go back and tell Vocerr," she continued. "You're still a baby, he cannot expect you to do this task. He wouldn't have asked if he'd known how little you were!"

The glow died as quickly as it had come and the blush doubled in strength.

"I'm fine," he snapped, irritation creeping into his voice. "I have done this before."

Ksheta clearly realised that she had offended him and was gripped his shoulder with one hand as she walked beside him.

"I did not mean to question your braveness," she said, her tone low and regretful.

Mollified by her apology, but wishing to change the subject as swiftly as possible, Harry merely nodded brusquely in response.

"Tell me about the Zana," he said simply.

Ksheta tipped her head ever so slightly back and a wistful smile crept on to her lips.

"A long time ago, we ruled this land. We reclaimed it from the darkness by force, long before the goblins similarly ejected us. Long before it was broken by muggles and their wars and their strife. It's still hidden in there, after all these years. Albania; the Land of Eagles."

She smiled at Harry, a full-blooded smile of pleasure and he could do nothing but bask in its loveliness.

"And we thrived, for a long time, many hundreds of years. But perhaps, as a race, we prospered too much, were too naive. When the wizards arrived from the south, we saw their intelligence and welcomed them with open arms, expecting them to be as benevolent as we. We were hospitable and they were grateful and for a while it remained so. They were not like us, but pleasant enough, willing to tolerate and be tolerated.

"But then the Goblins arrived from the south and again we saw their intelligence and made the mistake of believing that it came hand in hand with benevolence. We were wrong. Where the humans were content to trade with us, to share in our wealth and happiness, the Goblins despised our success with all their hearts. They were envious, shallow and greedy.

"They conspired to make war and steal it from us and by the time that we realised their plans, it was far too late."

Her smile was sad now and she stared at the earth as she walked.

"I was born long after this, of course, but it was the beginning of the end of my people. There are only a handful left and we are hidden from the land, entrusted with the rivers, the mountains, the lakes and the plains. No longer do we walk among the people and bask in their affection, but are lost to mythology and act from the shadows, employing agents such as yourself to do the dirty work we are unable to.

"We love this land," she concluded, her voice heavy. "But this land stopped loving us a long time ago."

Harry swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and glanced at her again, unsure what he should say, what he could say to that sad story. It had lasted long enough to take them halfway down the mountain, Ksheta stopped at an invisible line on the ground, unwilling or unable to go on. Harry came to stop with her. They stood for a moment, gazing out at the landscape that rolled away before them, stretching from the mountainside off into the distance in the deep folds and slopes of shuddering forests.

Harry knew she would go no further with him.

"I'm really sorry," he said eventually. "About your people. It's really sad."

Ksheta fixed him with a piercing gaze.

"Everything dies, Harry," she said, her voice soft and deadly at the same time. Something else rang in her voice too, a sad note of bitterness. "Even history."

She kissed him again, as she had done on the peak and once more he was filled with a power and energy that coursed through his body.

"You must go alone from here," she said.

"I won't be alone," he replied, touched Sternley's brim and then his lips.

She beamed again and Harry dazedly thought it might be the most beautiful thing under the sun.

"I'll see you again, I think," Ksheta said, her voice melodic, like bird song.

"I hope so. Goodbye Ksheta."

"Goodbye Harry."

Once more Harry and Sternley continued their journey and once more Harry couldn't resist glancing over his shoulder for just one more glimpse of her vibrant red hair.

And although the sword was broken and Harry was off to face a basilisk, having Sternley back was an enormous weight off his mind; he felt as though the two of them, working as a team, were unstoppable.

After all, they'd fought a pack of oiks and won. They'd fought an army of goblins and won that too. Then they'd faced a hundred trained aurors and somehow, admittedly more by luck than judgement, eeked their way through. He'd climbed mountains, conversed with the Zana and flown a car half way across the world.

After all that, what was slaying a basilisk?

At least he'd done it before.


	30. Chapter 30

**A/N - Sorry another slow chapter; I promise it gathers some steam after this. Just to mention, a couple of people have pointed out mistakes I've made. That's really cool. I have no illusions that I'm perfect, so if you spot one and you've got two seconds to be a good sport; be sure to drop me a PM or a review. I read them all and I'm more than happy to receive/respond to PMs. **

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë  
Chapter Thirty**

Small stones dug into Harry's arms, legs and stomach as he lay, stretched out on his front, eyes peering over the edge of the ridge.

"Am I a terribly jaded person," began Harry, his voice hushed. "For not entirely trusting them?"

"The Zana?" replied Sternley, also in a whisper. "No. I don't trust them either. Maybe we're both paranoid."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps the crazy guy living at the top of a mountain with mounds of sausages just doesn't seem like the most reliable person in the world?"

"Better or worse than the fugitive talking to a hat?"

"Touché," replied Harry, then crawled a little further forward to get a better view. "I wish I had binoculars or something."

They'd come straight down from the mountain path where they'd left Ksheta, almost due south. The geography had descended very sharply and it'd been hard work for Harry to clamber down without falling. In a number of places, he'd opted for a controlled fall down the scree, rather than risking the narrow and windswept trail. He'd suffered some enormous bruises on his thighs, but considering he hadn't cracked his skull, Harry's decided this strategy was a success.

Nestled halfway down the slope toward Valbona Village was a small rise that formed a miniature valley on the side of the mountain. Early on in their descent, Harry and Sternley had decided that this was a fantastic spot to hide out and assess the lay of the land. Harry plucked Sternley from his head and crawled up to the edge of the ridge, peering over the top. Only a thousand or so feet away down the hillside was the village; a picturesque little farming community bordered by fields and right on the edge of the river.

Aside from the few larger buildings; big, plastered, breeze-block structures that Harry assumed must serve a municipal function, the village was entirely comprised of small stone cottages with thick shale slabs on the roof. He thought the little houses must be far, far older than their inhabitants. That once upon a time, the people who originally built the peaceful little village had taken their materials from the ground they worked. The mountains and the rivers and the forests.

And yet there were signs that Valbona had not always been peaceful. Just a little way away from the village, was a domed concrete structure with a large, empty window at the front. Whether a relic of the Second World War, or the Cold War, Harry didn't know enough history to say. But he knew what the pillbox was and it was sad sight to see, in such an idyllic little village.

He hoped it hadn't ever been used.

Harry scrabbled back down the scree, until he was once again in the confines of the rut on the mountainside.

"I didn't see any goblins," he said. "Or any aurors."

"Just because you can't see them, doesn't mean they're not there."

"So whats your advice?"

"I think we follow the river at a distance, toward Bajam Curri and avoid Valbona altogether."

"Except that it'll take us straight through the part of Valbonë that's currently swarming with goblins."

Harry and Sternley had spotted them while descending from the mountain. About thirty goblins travelling down the opposite slope of the valley. There hadn't been any purpose to their movement, just a slow meandering patrol. But it meant that they were on the lookout and wary for wizards. Harry didn't fancy trying to slip by them. Not for the first time he wished he'd brought his invisibility cloak.

"What's the other option?" asked Sternley.

"The road that runs straight through Valbona," replied Harry. "Stands to reason that one of the directions is going to go to lead to Bajam Curri."

"And you think the goblins will let you just walk past?"

"There's other children in the village," he said. "Long dark hair, slightly grubby, very thin. You think the goblins'll notice one more shepherd boy?"

"How are you supposed to hide the sword?"

Harry hadn't actually considered that.

"Wrap it in my cloak?"

"Oh yes, what a good idea," replied Sternley. "That's not going to be even slightly suspicious. Because all shepherds up in the Albanian valleys carry swords wrapped in oik skin cloaks. How could they ever possibly see through that little ruse?"

"Well it's still better than your idea," grunted Harry in annoyance. "Just walk at them until they decide to poke me full of holes."

"That's not my plan at all," snapped Sternley. "Goblins have better eyesight in low light than you do, so either way you're going to have to wait until morning. I suggest we stay here overnight and then creep by them, using the sunlight to our advantage and the trees on our side of the river to hide our movement."

"Oh," said Harry. "That is a much better plan. Why didn't you say that before?"

"I did," stressed Sternley. "You just weren't listening."

"Liar," muttered Harry and Sternley pretended not to hear him.

Harry settled down against the lone tree in the small rut. Thick leafy branches gave him shade against the sun as it prepared for its descent over the horizon.

"So what's the deal with Vocerr?" asked Harry, trying to sound nonchalant and failing.

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. I must have read 'Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them' a dozen times when we were researching Fluffy and Norbert last year and there's absolutely no mention of creatures that turn into enormous talking eagles."

"No, I can't imagine they're especially common," admitted Sternley, but didn't elaborate any more.

"But you know what it is."

"Only suspicions, I'm afraid."

Harry felt a little stab of anger at the hat's cagey response, but crushed it when he realised that Sternley really was unsure— a rare occurrence. To Sternley's credit, although the hat had almost certainly noticed Harry's annoyance while perched on his head, he didn't mention it.

"Well suspicions are better than ignorance."

"True," replied Sternley thoughtfully and then fell silent for a time. But Harry could tell from the way the hat shifted on his head, that he was thinking of the best manner with which to approach the subject. "I think they're shape-shifters."

"You think?" asked Harry, sarcastically.

"Don't be such an idiot. There are lots of creatures that can shift their shape; boggarts and werewolves to name a couple. But neither are powerful enough to destroy an artefact like that sword."

Harry wondered what a boggart was, but kept silent for the sake of Sternley's explanation.

"In fact, very few things would be capable of destroying that sword. A wizard would, but only because he had the inventiveness to do so. A goblin too, but only because they're cunning."

"How about a Phoenix?" suggested Harry.

"No," replied Sternley thoughtfully. "Don't get me wrong, a phoenix is a powerful magical creature, but their strength lies in creation, not destruction."

"So what do you think it is?"

Harry sat in silence for a moment as Sternley considered the question, his gaze wandering over the crest of the ridge. Beneath it the patchwork scrubland fell away into a thick carpet of brilliant green grass that followed the slope of the hill down to the village and its merrily gurgling river.

"I think it's a totem," said Sternley eventually, unease creeping into his voice.

"What's that?" asked Harry, lifting the canteen to his lips and taking a sip of water. It was icy cold and crystal clear and he allowed the liquid to seep down the back of his throat, enjoying the sensation.

"It's—" began Sternley and then faltered. "Harry, you've got to realise, that talking about totems— it's like saying the earth is flat. It's an idea, a concept, that was abandoned hundreds of years ago."

"Well maybe that's why I've no idea what you're on about," he replied, taking another mouthful from the canteen and then splashing a little across his brow to cool it.

"It's part of wizarding mythology," said Sternley as he began to explain. "According to the myth; Totems, in essence, are the birthplace of all magic. The old legends talk of how humanity bred with creatures of enormous magic and that their descendants became wizards and witches."

"You mean to say that's what the Malfoys are so proud of? That their ancestor had it away with an eagle? And Draco called Hermione a 'mudblood'."

Even Sternley couldn't stop himself from chuckling, even as he shushed Harry, bidding him be more quiet.

"Get your mind out of the gutter," said the hat. "They're shapeshifters, remember?"

"Fair point," accepted Harry. "But still."

"Anyway," continued Sternley, bringing them back to the topic at hand, even though Harry could still hear the amusement in his voice. "Totems are supposed to be a physical manifestation of the Earth spirit itself—"

"What's an Earth spirit?" interrupted Harry as he lowered himself to sit on the bank of the stream.

"Like the Totems," responded Sternley. "A myth. Centuries ago, wizards believed that the Earth itself was in some way sentient and magically powerful. There's absolutely no evidence to back it up."

"Except that we just met a totem," pointed out Harry.

"What I think may possibly just be a totem," corrected Sternley, but sounded uneasy nonetheless. "Anyway, all myths have some basis in reality. If the Totem myth refers to the Zana, then perhaps that's the limit of it."

Harry nodded. It made sense, in a fashion. The Zana had talked about living peacefully with humans after all. Even if they weren't the birthplace of human magic, if the Zana remembered wizards, the wizards would surely remember the Zana, albeit perhaps just as a myth.

"You ought to catch some shut-eye," said Sternley, soberly. "We shan't be moving until well into the morning and you look knackered."

Harry couldn't even summon the energy to fake taking offence. After all, Sternley was right. He was exhausted; his limbs ached from their climb up the mountain, his feet were blistered and swollen. His head felt as though someone had jammed cotton wool into it and his eyelids kept closing of their own accord.

"This time," he said. "Warn me if any enormous birds come down to take you away."

"Will do," said Sternley.

He might have said something else, but Harry couldn't tell, because he was already drifting to sleep.


	31. Chapter 31

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë  
Chapter Thirty One**

Harry awoke to the sound of screams. His eyes flicked open and stared upward. High above he could see stars in the dark sky. A faint glow of flickering light from the fire he'd laid the night before illuminated the branches above him at weird angles. Smoke drifted overhead, thick against the sky and Harry suspected, just from the quantity of it, he might have stacked too much wood on the fire.

Except—

He didn't remember laying a fire.

Harry sat bolt upright and looked around, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He was still in the rut on the mountainside, Sternley on the ground beside him, there was no fire in the camp at all. Instead, the bright orange light was coming from somewhere over the ridge.

Valbona Village was burning.

A strong breeze drifted along the valley, bringing the smell of smoke to Harry's nostrils and the sounds of screams to his ears.

"What's going on?" he asked, still shaking the sleep from his heavy body.

"Goblins attacked Valbona," replied the Hogwarts Sorting Hat, tersely.

"What?" demanded Harry, his eyes flying wide open, reaching for his sword. "How many? Where?"

"I don't know, do I?" snapped Sternley. "I'm a hat, aren't I?"

"How long ago?"

"Five minutes?"

Harry gaped. The village had been under attack for five minutes and Sternley had done nothing? Harry swung Vocerr's belt around him and clipped his sword up high on his back. He removed his final remaining firestick from his pocket and threaded that through one of the belt loops.

"You should have woken me," said Harry angrily, pulling his cloak tighter around him and rising to his feet.

"You can't seriously be intending to go down there?" asked Sternley, though his voice was subdued, as though he already knew the answer.

It was, Harry realised, precisely why the hat hadn't woken him. To protect him from exactly this. He simultaneously appreciated and resented the gesture. He shoved Vocerr's bag under a bush and turned back to Sternley.

"I'm going out to fight them," he said, quietly. "This is my fault. I have to do it."

"I know you have to," replied the hat.

"Do you want me to leave you here?" he asked. "Less chance of you getting captured by goblins if I—"

He broke off, leaving the rest unsaid.

"And then who would watch your back?" asked Sternley, a haughty tone to his voice. "On that topic, put me on your head facing backward, so I can literally watch it."

Harry grinned a thank you, feeling more grateful than ever toward the hat, threw Sternley on his head and scaled the ridge.

The village below was a mess. He was thankful to see that only a handful of buildings burned and those that did were mostly larger ones he hoped nobody lived in. However, he could see dozens of tiny forms scampering around in the darkness, goblins running amok, their pale bands of armour gleaming orange in the firelight. Harry descended the hill, trying to find a balance between moving as fast as he could and making as little noise as possible, grass and gorse softening his footfalls.

He managed to cover the open ground without a single goblin spotting him and he crouched in the shadow of a building to catch his breath. Still panting slightly, he chanced a glance around the corner. In the road was the still form of a young man, dark liquid pooled around him. Harry drew in a sharp breath and closed his eyes. The goblins weren't taking prisoners, that much was obvious.

Slowly, he drew Vocerr's sword.

It wasn't as heavy as he'd imagined it might be, but it was very long for his small form and he had to hold it in two hands before him. When he finally crept around the corner he could see right down the single street leading along the river, all the way to the edge of the village on the other side. The goblins were moving along the thoroughfare, away from his position. The villagers seemed to be putting up little resistance, running before them and the warriors scuttled about, chasing the villagers, kicking over dustbins and throwing lit torches through the windows of every building they passed.

There didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to the attack, other than to destroy the buildings. They weren't even doing a particularly good job of chasing the people, more happy to see them off than actually do any killing. Though this seemed mostly born of laziness than any lack of malice.

They had clearly been expecting the village to be a pushover and, so far, that's exactly what it had been, but it had encouraged the goblins to split up and this made them easier targets for Harry. He grinned ever so slightly, trying to buoy his confidence. But it didn't help lessen the hammering of his heart in his ears, remove the lump in his throat or control the vicious needles of fear in the rest of his body.

He slunk through the town, behind the main goblin advance. Each movement was careful, running from the shadow of one building to the next, careful not to let any goblin disappear from sight for too long. He didn't want any getting behind him. It only took him a minute or so to close the distance, but in that time he'd seen another villager stand and fight, flailing with a hatchet, and be mercilessly cut down. Harry's stomach had rolled at the sight of it.

Time to act, he thought.

The next time a goblin left the safety of the group moving down the main road, ostensibly to throw a torch through the window of one of the buildings, but also to pee in the flowerbeds outside, Harry sprung out of the shadowed gap between two buildings. He struck his foe heavily in the back of the head with the pommel of the sword and the goblin, who luckily wasn't wearing a helmet, fell face first into the flowerbed. Harry watched as he lay unmoving and spread eagled amongst the damp flowers.

"Urine trouble," Harry whispered to the goblin.

"How droll," replied Sternley.

Oddly enough, Harry felt less terrified. He wasn't sure if it was the awful joke or just getting his first confrontation out of the way, but his heart beat didn't sound quite so loud in his ears and his breathing was calmer, less ragged.

Whatever the reason, Harry didn't think it was wise to stick around and bandy words with his foe, regardless of how unconscious he was. So he leapt around the flowers and darted between two more buildings, one burning brightly in the dark night. The path took him into a back garden and he crashed straight into another goblin.

Harry sprawled to the ground, right on top of the biting, kicking creature. Harry lifted his arm to strike his new opponent with his pommel but belatedly realised he'd dropped his sword in the fall. So instead he brought his fist down and struck the goblin in the throat, just as it opened its mouth to yell for help.

Its eyes bulged as Harry's blow struck home and it clawed desperately at its collar, struggling for air. Harry hit it twice more, this time with two quick hooks to either side of the head.

Harry had never been able to do much damage to Dudley in their little bouts and was ready to hit it in the throat again, if necessary. But perhaps he'd overestimated the goblin, or perhaps he'd gotten stronger for his weeks in the forest for the first blow knocked a handful of teeth out of the goblin's face and the other rendered the vicious little creature unconscious.

But this wasn't much of a consolation to Harry, whose hands had exploded in pain after each strike. It was all he could do not to scream out, gritting his teeth tightly to halt the noise. Even so, a scrambled sob slipped from between his lips and tears gushed from his eyes. He knelt on the goblin's chest for a moment, hugging his hands to his stomach, rocking ever so slightly.

"Keep moving, Harry," hissed Sternley. "I know it hurts but you can't stop now."

Harry pushed himself to his feet, staggering slightly as he did so. He retrieved his sword from the ground and all but tumbled out of the garden and into the lane behind. Still looking at his hands, rather than where he was going, Harry bumped into another goblin running in the opposite direction. He was spun aside by the impact, all one side of his body was grazed by the goblin's armour. But he still managed to swing out with the sword in both hands as he stumbled away. The awful sound of tearing metal echoed out in the night, followed by a sickening squelch and once more Harry found his sword was torn from his hands.

Harry's feet came out from underneath him on the cobbled surface of the alley and he clutched at the wall as he fell. He was only just about able to prevent himself from pitching forward to the ground. He turned, scrabbling at his front for the firestick tucked into his belt, but suddenly stopped, eyes wide. The goblin was lying still on the ground, Vocerr's sword rising from his midrift like a flagpole from the earth. Thick black blood ran from the terrible wound the sword had bestowed on him, coating the cobbles and glistening in the moonlight.

Harry crept over and looked down into the face of the dying goblin, who stared back, loathing in his eyes.

"A child?!" he hissed. "Ha. Of course. A child."

And then he died.

Harry stared blankly down at the corpse at his feet. Everything had gone silent and still. His heart wasn't pounding in his ears any more. The heat from the burning houses faded. The smell of the smoke died in his nostrils. Even his hands didn't hurt any more.

"Harry," hissed Sternley. "You've got to keep moving. You still have work to do."

"I killed him," whispered Harry, his face slack and expressionless. His mind empty in shock.

"What did you think was going to happen when you came down here?"

Harry opened his mouth to respond but no words came out. That was just it, really. It wasn't as though he had thought he could come down here and fight the goblins off without killing any of them. But honestly, he hadn't thought anything at all. He certainly hadn't thought it would be like this; with the smell of blood and smoke in the air, his hands stinging with bitter pain, his skin damp and his hair dank with sweat. It was like the Chamber of Secrets all over again.

Except, at least it wasn't his blood this time.

With that thought, Harry reached out and pulled the sword out of the goblin. It made a disgusting sucking noise as the blade came free from his chest. Harry turned away, face hard and set, sword raised before him.

Sternley was right; he still had work to do.

He followed the alley until it reached the main street and glanced up and down it. The goblins had split up now and only three remained on the main street, pacing aimlessly about, talking in low, guttural voices and letting loose with high-pitched peals of laughter from time to time.

Harry moved up the main street a little, careful to stay in the overgrown ditch that ran along side it. Then he slipped into the front garden of another house and around the side path. He was just hoisting himself over a tall, thick wall that separated one back yard from the adjacent one, when he heard a piercing scream ring out somewhere to his left.

Someone was in trouble!

Harry climbed on top of the flat topped wall and ran along it, hopping down into another of the village's winding back alleys. This one was so overgrown with brambles and weeds that Harry could only move along it at a weird skip, hopping from one patch of open ground to the next, thorns snatching at his legs as he ran.

There was another scream, louder and closer. Harry threw himself at a hedge that put up very little resistance to the determined young wizard, burst through it. He stumbled into a large expanse of lawn and sent the nearest goblin crashing to the ground. Before him, a second goblin stood over a small, dark haired girl. A dark, glittering blade poised midway through a killing thrust.

At Harry's sudden arrival he'd glanced back, surprise staying his hand.

Harry tried to bring his sword to bear on the goblin but it was tangled up in the sprawling arms and legs of the first. So instead he fumbled at his belt and produced the fire stick.

"BURN!" he snarled, taking aim.

A vicious burst of white fire exploded from the tip of the stick. It was hot enough to make Harry's fringe curl, powerful enough to disintegrate the firestick and bright enough to temporarily blind him. Luckily it seemed to render both the goblin beneath him and the little girl, sightless.

Harry was the first to recover and he fell on top of the goblin who was still thrashing on the ground. His hands closed around its throat and squeezed. The goblin spluttered and reached up to Harry's face, the sharp gauntlets scratching at his unprotected skin. Fingers reaching for his eyes. But it still couldn't see and only managed to leave cuts on Harry's chin and cheeks.

Harry's already injured hands flared with pain as he squeezed as hard as he could. A constant inarticulate growl of pain escaped his lips. It seemed to take forever before the little creature below him stopped wheezing, kicking and scratching before its eyes glazed over, leaving them sightless and empty. Harry hung on a little longer, just to be sure, but eventually released his grip and looked up.

The other goblin was sprawled on the ground, still smoldering. Harry could see a near perfect hole cut through his midsection, the plate armour melted and buckled where his firestick had burned through it. He looked from the corpse to the girl, who stared back at him, wide-eyed, tear streaks cutting through the soot on her face.

She was older than Harry had initially thought, perhaps his own age or a year either side, and she stared at him as though he were the devil incarnate. Harry climbed to his feet, shook his sword free of the mess of goblin limbs and armour.

"It's okay," he said, lowering it slightly. "I'm—"

"Behind you," hissed Sternley.

Harry spun and gasped as the knife intended for his kidney grazed his ribs. He brought the sword up but it was far too large and unwieldy to parry the second blow the goblin threw at him. Even with the reflexes of a natural seeker, Harry only just about managed to throw himself clear of the blade as it arced down. The very tip of the blade cut through his shoulder and spat blood to the grass. The lancing pain surged through Harry, jolting the sword from his hands, but he still managed to step out of the way of another wild swing and seize the goblin's knife hand with both of his own.

He pulled the arm sharply, took advantage of his opponent being off balance and pulled the goblin's face down to meet his rising knee. He felt the goblin's nose break and hot, thick blood poured to the ground. Harry ignored the stabbing pain in his shoulder, his aching hands and throbbing knee and twisted the knife from the arm he was still holding. In an instant, he brought it down in a wide diagonal arc.

He turned back to the girl, who was still on the ground, and offered her his hand. She hesitated for a moment, then took it and Harry hauled her up. He glanced back as he heard harsh shouts from the main street, the rest of the goblins no doubt regrouping to investigate the explosion Harry's firestick had produced.

Harry glanced around once. He was in the middle of what looked like a playing field. Thick hedges stood between him and the road, but the other three sides were lined only with metal railings. The village around them burned, beyond saving and anyone else still here was bound to be dead by now.

Harry had done what little he could and knew that if he stayed any longer, he'd die with them, this was no place to stage a stand. He seized up Vocerr's sword in his free hand and pushed the girl with his elbow.

"Run," he hissed.

Whether she understood the word or not, Harry couldn't tell, but she plainly understood his meaning because she darted off in the direction of the village limits. Harry followed, hot on her heels, the shouts of enraged goblins ringing in his ears from behind. It was hard going, trying to run and maintain his balance with a sword in one hand and a knife in the other, but Harry's fingers had finally given up and try as he might, he couldn't release the goblin blade.

"They're catching up!" yelled Sternley.

"NOT HELPING!" roared Harry, his lungs almost exploding with the effort.

As they burst back on to the main street, goblins thick in their wake, Harry's ears caught an unfamiliar sound. Was that purring? No! An engine! Harry pulled the girl aside as a light blue bonnet smashed through the fence beside him in a peal of screeching tyres and screaming metal.

For a second his heart soared. It was the Anglia! It had to be!

But it wasn't. Instead, a blue pickup truck shuddered to a halt in front of them, the man driving it shouting something unintelligible, but his meaning was clear. Harry threw Vocerr's sword into the flatbed with a clatter, then pushed the girl in after it. Without a moment's hesitation, he leapt in after her.

"BEHIND!" cried Sternley in warning and Harry spun.

The pickup truck was accelerating again, but too slowly. The two goblin forerunners leapt for the tailgate, gauntleted fingers catching hold and tiny legs left hanging in midair.

Harry reacted quickly and kicked out hard at one of the four hands. The goblin on the left yelled out in pain and fell off, an expression of surprise on his face as he hung momentarily in mid air, before crashing to the tarmac below.

The other goblin took the opportunity to pull himself into the back and upright, but before he could even move, Harry shoved the goblin knife that was still in his hand, deep into his foe's belly. It doubled over, blood spattering to the floor of the truck, gasping for breath. Harry casually pushed him back over the tailgate and watched as he rolled over and over on the road, his armour clattering against the hard surface.

Harry stood at the rear of the truck, his quidditch balance keeping him upright and adrenaline coursing through his body.

"Silly slow goblins!" he roared defiantly into the night. "You can't catch me!"

As though in answer, an arrow hissed out of the sky, burying itself into the tailgate and sending Harry scuttling to the front of the flatbed. He glanced down at the girl, huddled in one of the corners, staring at him with astonished eyes.

"Well it's true. They haven't yet," he said and sat down to nurse his injuries.


	32. Chapter 32

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë  
Chapter Thirty Two**

The pickup didn't slow until it was far outside the village. The goblins had stopped chasing them almost immediately, but Harry was grateful that they'd headed east following the river. For even though it meant that they were surrounded by the trees of Valbonë forest and potentially goblins, it had moved him far faster than he'd hoped to manage. Perhaps recouping some of the time he'd spent climbing Vocerr's mountain.

The girl he'd saved in the village hadn't spoken a word to him for the entire duration of their drive but instead had sat in her corner and stared at him with obvious worry. Harry didn't care. In honesty, he preferred the silence. He had no interest in making friends with her and even if they had talked, he doubted they'd have understood each other. So instead he'd appreciated travelling without having to walk and cleaned blood from his sword and wounds.

None of the damage bestowed upon him by the goblins had been that bad. The cut on his shoulder, though it had swollen badly and ached, was shallow and rather inconsequential, the cut on his ribs, caused by the same knife, also seemed beneath concern. More worrying though was the side of his body that had collided with the goblin's armour. It was badly bruised and covered in grazes. Harry had enough experiences with quidditch injuries to be certain that it would hinder his movement in the days to come.

When the truck finally stopped, Harry hopped out of it, his sword ready and pressed close to his body. He'd been through enough to be constantly wary of this muggle, but knew that he wouldn't see Harry's weapon as an immediate threat. He rounded the truck to the driver's side, just as the driver was climbing out.

He was short and squat, with wide shoulders and enormous hands. His thick, muscled arms descended at least half a foot lower than they ought to, giving him the appearance of an ape, but the dark eyes in his large grizzled face were sharp and intelligent. He stared apprehensively at Harry as he approached.

"Do you speak English?" asked Harry, drawing closer, the sword held low but ready to fly up at a moment's notice.

"No," replied the man, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at Harry.

Harry shrugged.

"Well, thanks, I guess," he said, unsure what else to say, he didn't speak any Albanian after all.

"You have Vocerr's sword," observed the man quietly and Harry's stomach twisted in his gut.

He said he didn't speak English, thought Harry, frowning at the man. And how does he know anything about Vocerr? Is this man a wizard? Rather than saying anything, he just stared at him.

"You're not Vocerr, are you?" asked the man.

Harry stared at him.

"I don't mean any harm," the man said reassuringly. "My family has lived here practically forever, they tell stories of that sword."

"I'm not Vocerr," Harry said, careful to leave as little intonation in his voice as possible.

"I didn't think you were," said the man, shaking his head. "The stories speak of bright orange eyes. You are one of his Drangues, then."

"I might be," replied Harry, though he didn't know what one of those might be. This man was making him more and more worried by the second and Harry was tempted to run.

"I knew it," hissed the man, his face lighting up with excitement. "I knew the stories were true. My father told me them and his father told him them and so on for hundreds and hundreds of years!"

And probably much longer than that, thought Harry, if Vocerr was in them.

"They told me I was mad when I warned them about the little people," the man continued, looking very excitable. "But they know now don't they?"

"Not if they're dead they don't," replied Harry, shrugging.

The man's face fell, the excitement coming out of him all at once to be replaced by wild-eyed grief. Harry suddenly felt ashamed for speaking so callously. The village had probably contained all of the man's friends and family after all. Had probably been the man's entire life. He reached out with a hand and touched the man's arm lightly, his other hand still gripping the sword.

"I was in the thick of it," he said gently. "I didn't see many die. They'll have fled like us."

The man nodded, but his face was still pained. Harry didn't know what else he could do to comfort him, but just as he was about to open his mouth and let loose with a torrent of clichés, he heard movement in the back of the truck and remembered the girl.

"I've got to go," he said and jerked his thumb in her direction. "Is she going to be alright with you?"

He didn't know why he was asking, what other choice did he have? He certainly couldn't take her with him. But it was something to say that might distract him from the attack on his village. It worked too, he looked up at him, his face suddenly brighter.

"My niece," he said, as though that made him trustworthy. "She's family."

It didn't, not for Harry anyway, because his uncle had been family too and he'd treated Harry abominably. Though he supposed being locked in a cupboard would be better for her than whatever the goblins might do to her if they caught her. He shrugged again, reminding himself that normal people didn't lock small children in cupboards.

"Your hat talks," came a small voice from behind him, he glanced back to see the girl leaning her head out of the truck. "I heard it."

"Anna, this is one of Vocerr's drangues," said the man enthusiastically. "From the stories."

Anna stared at Harry appraisingly.

"Where are your wings?" she asked, sounding almost accusing.

"They're invisible Anna," explained her uncle, patiently.

"Actually they're in Yugoslavia," explained Harry, with a grin, thinking of the Anglia. He had no idea what a Drangue was, but it certainly bestowed some form of honour on him amongst these people and it was better than having to explain the concept of a wizard. "But they do turn invisible. Sometimes."

Harry stood awkwardly for a moment, the three of them staring at each other in silence. Then he drew himself up and nodded his head in the direction of the man.

"Thank you again," he said. "For saving my life. But I've got to be going now."

He began to turn but the man hastily spoke out.

"Wait," he said, urgently. "Where are you going?"

"Bajram Curri," said Harry, warily.

"About twenty miles down the road," he said, pointing in the direction they'd been travelling. "I could drive you."

Harry stared at him and mentally calculated. Twenty miles could take him anywhere between five and ten hours, depending on the terrain and the inevitable distractions that would arise in a place like Valbonë. It was certainly doable, but in the dark, with goblins wandering around. It would be nice to take the alternative. Especially since it could cut his journey time by ninety percent.

But it'd be putting these two people at risk and Harry wasn't sure that was a good thing.

"It'll be dangerous," he warned.

"More dangerous than going back to Valbona or waiting here in the forest?" asked the man.

He had Harry dead to rights and he knew it. Harry nodded his acquiescence and moved to climb in the back again, but the man shook his head.

"Come up here in the cab where it's warm. Anna you come too, there's plenty of room for three."

So they all bundled into the front of the pickup. The man climbed in the driver's side while Harry and Anna rounded the truck and climbed in the other. Harry held the door open and let the girl climb in first, partially out of manners, but mostly so that he'd have an easy escape if he needed it. The expression on the uncle's face told Harry that he'd noticed the deliberate seating arrangement but didn't seem particularly perturbed by it. Harry wasn't sure if this was a good or a bad thing.

It would have been impossible for Harry to sit with the sword on his back, so he removed it before climbing in, sticking it in the foot well but trapping it between his knees, so it was easy to hand. It would have probably been impossible to swing in the small confines of the cab, but the intent was there and Harry saw again from the man's expression that he'd got the message.

A moment later they were moving along the road again, at a considerably more cautious pace, the headlights on low beam in an attempt to attract as little attention as possible. Clearly whoever this man was, he knew enough about the forests around these parts to know that they weren't entirely safe.

"I'm Gjergj," said the man, gazing intently ahead. "I forgot to introduce myself."

Harry caught the glance that Anna gave her uncle and decided that if Gjergj was his real name, he'd eat his hat.

'Oi,' thought Sternley, moving ever so slightly on his head. 'I heard that.'

Harry ignored him and went back to looking out of the window. On his side of the road the side of the valley rose steeply up into another mountain that looked vaguely familiar. Every now and then they'd pass smaller but similar looking valleys that all connected into this much larger one. Harry suspected that he must have been in one of these smaller valleys and wondered why he'd never noticed the road running so close to him.

'Valbonë is made up of a series of interconnecting valleys,' began Sternley in his head. 'Some of them belong to the muggles. Others to the goblins. I think we were much further north than this.'

Harry thought that this made a lot of sense.

'How come the muggles don't notice though?'

'Same way they don't notice Hogwarts, or the Knight's Bus," replied the hat.

Harry didn't know what the Knight's Bus was, but he remembered the way that muggle shoppers had looked straight through the Leaky Cauldron as though it didn't exist. How nobody ever seemed to notice the children disappearing into a wall on the crowded King's Cross station and thought he understood. A clever bit of warding no doubt.

The truck's headlights lit up a sign that read 'Bajram Curri, 10 miles' and Harry's insides writhed.

"Out of the frying pan," he whispered to himself.


	33. Chapter 33

**A/N - I apologise for the lack of an update yesterday. My internet dropped out on my all evening. On the plus side; this story is now complete. I'm fully intending to post the next 17 chapters all in a the next 17 days, so there's something like 45 thousand more words to come in the near future. For the record, it would be totally awesome to reach 1500 reviews before the end. c:**

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë  
Chapter Thirty Three**

Gjergj and Anna stopped a few miles out of town. The brakes of the pickup made a low, squealing protest as they came to a soft stop at the side of the road, one wheel all but in the ditch.

Harry frowned and glanced around.

He didn't see any hint of a threat, nor any other indication of why they might have slowed. Harry closed his grip around his firestick, ready to fight if required. As though reading his mind, Gjergj gestured wordlessly to the sky, pointing through the windscreen.

High above the forest canopy, smoke hung heavy on the breeze, far more than he'd seen above Valbona. Apparently the goblins had targeted several villages that night.

"I won't take you any further," said Gjergj, sounding apologetic. "If I were alone I'd help you with your task, whatever that might be, but I have the girl to think of."

Harry nodded his understanding. Despite his suspicions, the pair of them been nothing but helpful, though somewhat too inquisitive for his liking. Now it was his turn to return the generosity.

"North, above Valbona," he said. "There is a little ridge on the mountain. Do you know it?"

Gjergj nodded to indicate that he did.

"On that ridge, under the tree and in a bush is my bag," he said. "There's food, water and other supplies in it. There's not a lot and I don't know how useful it might be, but if your village is as damaged as I think it—"

Gjergj reached across and gripped Harry's hand. The gratitude on his face spoke volumes. Harry bowed his head in their direction, then smiled and clapped Anna on the shoulder.

Then he was clambering out of the truck and moving along the road before either of them could manage a word. The sooner he got away from them, the safer they'd all be.

At the first bend he slipped back into the forest, careful not to lose sight of the pillar of smoke. He, of all people, knew just how easy it was to become disorientated and lost in the woods at night.

The sun, just beginning to rise, painted the silent forest was in a pale half-light. The trees cast long shadows across the ground that ran up their neighbour's trunks and the movement of their leaves distorted the world around him. Harry shuddered; night in the forests of Valbonë was unnerving enough without a horde of angry goblins running around in the darkness.

He walked for almost an hour, his pace slow and cautious, careful not to make as little noise as possible. He paused when his nose caught the hint of an aroma. Smoke. And not the thick, acrid smoke still rising into the air from Bajram Curri, but the pleasant, fruity fragrance of a campfire. There were other scents too; the cooking of meat and something else, barely detectable. Something intangible and ethereal, but warm at the same time. It smelled of fresh holly, rubbing alcohol and beetle eyes.

'Magic,' he thought. 'It smells like magic.'

He stood for a long time, listening, his mind filtering out the sounds around him. A moment ago, he'd heard only silence, now he knew that every inch of the forest was alive and buzzing. Every sound had been amplified a hundred fold into Harry's head and his body resonated with it. The trees lit up with an unnatural red glow that flowed in the breeze like fire; every blade of grass and the leaves quivered motionlessly, humming with energy. The entire world undulated, power running through it in huge currents and every living thing swelled as though fit to burst, each poised to explode into a thousand shards of lacerating razorblades, edges keen in the dim light.

It proved so all-consuming an experience that Harry barely noticed the whisper at the back of his mind.

'Breathe,' it said in soft tones. 'It'll be—"

Harry breathed.

Sternley's voice crept to him through the haze.

'Are you okay, Harry?'

Harry took a deep breath.

'Relax,' said the other voice, sounding far away. 'It's okay. It's part of you. Use it.'

Harry relaxed and then his consciousness caught ablaze. It burned away the superfluous information, the background noise and the extraneous, minute sensations. The gentle whisper of the breeze against his skin, the nagging itches on his brow, jaw and back, days of dirt and grime worn into his clothes, dampness in his mouth. These and every other sensation was reduced to little more than sentience and one, distinct noise, bouncing around his head like the sound of a jackhammer.

'Are you okay, Harry?'

Four thousand, eight hundred and twenty three feet to the south a fire crackled.

Harry returned to reality with a snap like a breaking elastic band. He tried to stagger a step forward on legs made of jelly and found himself on his knees. His head spun wildly and he tasted vomit in the back of his mouth.

'Are you okay, Harry?'

Sternley's voice inside Harry's head sounded worried.

"I'm fine, Sternley," he said in a low, guttural voice. "Stop asking."

"I only asked the once," replied the hat, sounding confused.

Harry shook his head and then dropped it to the palms of his hands. His stomach churned as though he'd just been punched in the gut and he found he was gasping for breath. His skin had turned the colour of milk and was coated with a sheen of sweat.

He pushed this weakness aside, clambering to his feet.

"There's a fire," he grunted, gesturing in the direction of it. "Over there."

"What do you mean?"

Harry decided not to respond. He couldn't have explained it if he'd wanted to, and he wasn't sure that he did.

Wordlessly he stalked off into the forest, careful to make as little noise as possible. His weeks of practice at keeping a low profile in Valbonë payed dividends. In almost no time at all, Harry found himself crouching beyond the perimeter a small clearing, at the centre of which was a camp fire.

Around it sat two goblins; their long, clever fingers tearing cooked meat from the bone and transferring it to their mouths. They talked as they ate and Harry listened in interest, having never overheard a goblin conversation before.

"—probably dead," one goblin said to the other. "The chief wasn't impressed that he suffered so many casualties at the village."

"He were always rubbish though, ol' Stuntface," snickered the other, seeming pleased. "If the chief offed him for bein' a useless lout it weren't none too soon."

The first goblin nodded sagely.

"I know. But did you hear his story?"

His companion shook his head, his eyes narrow and intent, his lips curling upward. He looked as though he wanted nothing more than to listen to this story and revel in Stuntface's stupidity.

"Apparently he reported that a Drangue led the defense of the village. That it fought like ten men and that's why he suffered such appalling losses."

The second goblin snorted.

"He never," he protested, adamant that no goblin would make that mistake.

"He did, or my name ain't Bagdud."

"His story must be true then," replied his companion.

"You believe it?" asked Bagdud, eyes agog.

"Nobody is thick enough to tell that lie, not even ol' Stuntface," said the goblin. "Stands to reason it's true I reckon."

"Drangues are a myth," snarled Bagdud, his teeth bared and eyes narrowed. His tone took a nasty turn, even for a goblin. "A fabrication. They're spurious. Not. Real. You'd do well to remember that, Talongut. You don't want the chief getting wind of what you just said, now, do you?"

"No," said Talongut, his voice low and fast. "No sir, I don't. I were only kiddin'."

Bagdud nodded once, satisfied by his companion's grovelling apology.

"Of course, what happened to Stuntface will appear tame compared to the fate Oguk has to look forward to," he continued. "But I suppose those are the consequences when you fail the chief."

"But what'd he do wrong? The humans are rubbish. That tower shoulda' fallen easy."

"He claims a sorcerer bested him," said Bagdud, his tone thoughtful now. "And though I'm loath to admit it, I'm inclined to agree. Saw it with my own eyes.

"His Mardurn went berserk, murdering each other to be the first through the door, tearing each other apart before any one got inside. Then his oiks got loose and attacked them all, which is supposed to be impossible. So there was goblin Marduns fighting each other and oiks tearing the ones left into shreds before being ripped apart by each other.

"Every single one of his fighters dead in the doorway of the place and not a single human in sight. Another Hir, Rankshred, tried and you remember what he's like. Got down in there with the thick of it. But all he got was more of the same. Now the Chief decided it would be simpler to blow the entire tower to pieces when the ballistas arrive."

"So the Chief knows there's a sorcerer but he's still gonna kill Oguk?"

"That's the price of failure," said Bagdud, nodding. "If he'd come back with one foot like Rankshred did, he might not have been held accountable."

"Rankshred the Giant Killer?" asked Talongut, sounding incredulous. Bagdud nodded. "Lost a foot?"

Bagdud nodded again.

"He lost a lot more than that," he said, with a shrug. "He's dead."

"No!"

"Yes. I watched him bleed out," said Bagdud. Then he paused and his brow wrinkled in confusion. "Completely delirious by the end, poor goblin. Kept saying something about a giant snake biting it off."

Harry's stomach tightened at the words.

"His foot!?" Talongut looked stupefied by now, his mouth hanging open and his eyes bulging. "A snake bit off his foot!?"

"He was delirious, Talongut," snapped Bagdud. "Dying goblins say odd things sometimes, you ought to get used to it. Sooner or later you'll be the one lying there telling us how you were killed by a giant snake."

He tossed his bone into the fire and rose on spindly, awkward limbs.

"Won't be long," he announced and walked out of the clearing, straight toward Harry.

Bagdud died before he'd taken ten paces into the dark, Vocerr's blade cutting into the exposed flesh at his throat. The goblin's eyes widened in surprise and he made the slightest gurgling noise as he fell to the ground.

Harry crept around the fire so that he approached from behind Talongut. The goblin sat staring into the fire and as Harry drew closer he heard the creature muttering to himself.

"If the 'Giant Killer' can get it," he said. "Whose to say I'm not next. Or his nibs over there. 'Corse I wouldn't mind that one bit, would I? With his orders and his fancy words and noble name. If he got his foot—"

He turned hurriedly as Harry stood on a twig behind him, cringing ever so slightly, expecting a dressing down from Bagdud.

"I wasn't talkin' 'bout—" he froze and stared at Harry.

Their eyes lingered on each other's for a long while, then slowly the goblin's gaze fell to rest on the sword jutting out of his chest. He gave a half-hearted gasp and collapsed backward beside the fire. The flickering light played havoc with his features, distorting them first this way and then that, making it impossible for Harry to tell whether the goblin lived or not.

So he stabbed him again for good measure.

He kicked dirt on the fire to extinguish it and moved on, leaving the two goblins dead in the darkness.

"You catch all that?" he asked Sternley, knowing he had.

"I did," replied the hat, sounding concerned. "And that worries me."

"Which part?" asked Harry. "The snake, the tower or the enormous pile of dead goblins at the bottom of it?"

"That we understood them," elaborated Sternley. "Goblins only speak English to English wizards, goblins speaking to other goblins would normally speak in Gobbledygook."

Harry paused and frowned at this; it was something that hadn't occured to him, but in hindsight it certainly was peculiar.

"A trap then, you think?"

"Possibly," replied Sternley. "But if it was, then for who?"

"Me?" asked Harry. "I have killed quite a few."

"But how could they predict you would definitely come this way? Or know that you'd be interested in a giant snake?" asked Sternley. "It seems unlikely, either way. Something weird is going on here."

Harry nodded in agreement, before setting to walking again. Another hour passed and he still didn't seem any closer to Bajram. Trying to move stealthily made for slow going and Harry was glad to have accepted the ride from Gjergj when he'd been offered the chance.

It might have taken him a week on foot.

Harry slipped from tree to tree, sword held ready in both hands before him, and Sternley pulled low and tight on his brow. He considered and placed each footstep to make as little sound as possible. Every flurry of movement or animal cry in the distance contemplated and examined. For the most part, the forest was eerily still and this worried Harry, who'd never known it be peaceful.

"It's very quiet," he whispered, crouching amongst some large bushes.

"Too quiet," agreed Sternley sagely.

"You're such a walking cliché!"

"Am not," protested the hat.

"Are too!"

"I can't even walk!"

"Shhh. You'll warn the goblins."

"You shh."

At this precise moment a goblin decided to stroll around Harry's bushes to investigate the noise. It froze, an expression of incredulous surprise written on his ugly features. Harry looked him up and down once; he was about four and a half feet tall, with an array of armour haphazardly thrown around his person. In his hand he held an intimidating spear, all black steel and pointy edges.

A cruel smile crept on to the creature's face, clearly thinking he now had Harry at his mercy.

He look a pointed step forward, perhaps expecting Harry to run, but the Boy Who Lived held his ground and tilted his head to the side, as if merely curious.

"Aren't you a little short for a goblin?" he asked.

"Huh?" asked the goblin.

By the time he'd begun to react, Vocerr's sword was already neatly skewering him through the stomach. His expression once again became incredulous.

"You stabbed me," he said in an unusually high voice.

"Yeah, sorry about that," apologised Harry, pulling the sword clear of the unfortunate goblin, who collapsed into a messy heap on the ground.

Harry stepped over the corpse and wiped the blade on the grass, before returning it to his scabbard.

"I thought goblins were supposed to be smart."

"I assume Bodrod thinks that even you're not stupid enough to come waltzing back into Valbonë after the stunt you pulled last time," replied Sternley. "He's clearly put his thickest and most clueless in to patrol these forests."

Harry stopped, this time in the shade of an enormous oak, it was his turn to wear the incredulous expression.

"Wait, you're being serious? The Brotherhood of Goblins is led by someone called Bodrod the Bearded?"

"It is indeed."

Harry gave a low whistle.

"No wonder he's got such a rubbish attitude. Let's face it, if my name was as terrible as Bodrod the Bearded, I might start a couple of wars a week. You've actually got to admire his restraint."

"Quite," replied Sternley. "Now, do you reckon you might be a bit more quiet? We're trying to be stealthy and you've stabbed every sentry we've come across."

Harry moved across the next stretch of open ground and ducked behind another large trunk. This one was cut off near the top, the dark, burned patches indicating it was perhaps stuck by lightning in the same storms that had terrorized Harry during his time in Valbonë.

"You say that like three fewer goblins in the world is a bad thing," he objected.

"Two days ago you'd have agreed with me."

"Two days ago I'd never seen anything like this," replied Harry, coming to the edge of the forest.

Bajram Curri sat in a natural hollow in the landscape, a small town, no more than a village really. It would have fit into Little Whinging five times; certainly what little remained of it could have. The buildings burned. The slight breeze fanned the flames and pulling the smoke low along the streets, up the embankment at the near edge of town and into the forest. It was deathly still, but looked far from deserted. Corpses littered the town, strewn across the tarmac like a newspaper caught by the wind. The goblins here had been far more efficient in their dirty work than the ones at Valbona had been.

Harry's stomach lurched.

Those dark, limp ragdolls of every size lay heavy on his conscious.

Their deaths were his fault after all. He'd started this war.

"You think that's what they were talking about?" asked Sternley, inclining in the direction of a large tower rising prominently into the sky at the far end of town.

Though he recognised it as a blatant attempt to distract him, Harry was grateful for it.

"I should imagine so," he said softly.

Then steeled himself for the descent into Bajram.


	34. Chapter 34

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë  
Chapter Thirty Four**

Now that the tower loomed over him, Harry thought it might be a church of some kind. Twelve years of experience told him that people, neither magical nor muggle, constructed something so enormous for no reason. They built them to make a point; sometimes to display power and sometimes piety. And Harry didn't think the building was opulent or formidable enough to be the former.

"It's a mosque, I think," supplied Sternley, as though he knew what Harry was thinking.

Maybe he did.

Harry nodded, he'd never seen a mosque before. But if he'd been asked to imagine one, based on what little he knew, this could well have been what he imagined.

"It's very impressive," he remarked and crept closer to the large, peaked door.

"It's a little odd," replied the hat.

"That's no way to talk. Religion is important to some people."

"I meant, that this place should contain a basilisk. It's not exactly where I'd hide one."

"Perhapsthey have no intention of hiding it," said Harry. "I mean, Slytherin had a game plan. But I can't imagine your normal dark wizard is creepy enough to breed one while planning a thousand years into the future. Or at least I hope not."

"So you think they deliberately put it where there'd be a lot of muggles?"

"Stands to reason, doesn't it?" replied Harry. "Especially if it's not on their own doorstep. How would the Albanian Ministry ever know who did it?"

Sternley didn't answer him and it took Harry a moment to figure out why. He'd crept in through the front door of the mosque and into a long, narrow atrium. At the far end of the room was the most disgusting thing Harry had ever seen.

Around thirty goblins and twenty oiks lay in an enormous puddle, and every single one of them were in pieces. Gore coated the floor in a thick carpet and blood was splashed up the walls in high, arterial arcs. Whatever else you might say about Bagdud, he'd been truthful about this.

The weapons of the goblins lay abandoned and unused. Harry could tell that they'd gone at each other with fists and fangs. Punching, ripping and tearing until there was nothing left of each other but this sordid mess.

It took everything Harry possessed not to vomit where he stood.

But he managed to pull himself together long enough to take a staggering step in the direction of the nightmarish sight. It was all he needed. After that one step, the next came easier and the one after that. Eventually he was moving swiftly, albeit a little mechanically, through the middle of the carnage.

"Be careful," whispered Sternley. "You don't know what caused this."

Annoyance shot straight through Harry like a thunderbolt. Did Sternley think he was a moron?

"I'm not an idiot," he snapped.

"I didn't say you were. Just be careful."

Harry's eye twitched.

"You implied it," growled Harry. "I'm not thick enough to walk straight into something like this and not be wary of it."

He looked down at his feet as the first shoe came in contact some dried blood on the tiled floor. It was dark and didn't look real. It wasn't much like blood at all. Not really. Perhaps goblin blood was different to human blood. But the smell—

He looked around, disgusted and wondered what it was that could drive the goblins to act like this.

Though, the more he thought about it, was there much difference between this and what he'd seen outside in the rest of Bajram? Only that it was goblins killing goblins, rather than goblins killing people. Would he have killed them himself now? Now that he'd see what they were capable of?

Probably.

Probably?

Definitely.

But it wouldn't have been like this. Harry would have dragged it out, would have torn them into little pieces while they stilled breathed. Would have laughed as he did it. Would have danced in their blood, rolled in it and—

"Harry, relax," said Sternley.

Harry realised his hands were squeezing the hilt of the blade he couldn't even remember drawing. Annoyance shot through him again. Who was Sternley to tell him to relax, anyway? It wasn't hats lying in the streets of Bajram, murdered and burned. Wasn't him who'd caused it. He ought to snatch that stupid, sanctimonious hat off his head and cut him to shreds.

Ought to?

He would, damn it!

Harry began to lift a hand.

'Be still,' commanded the voice inside his head. The one that wasn't Sternley.

Harry paused, was aware of Sternley saying something to him, but didn't know what. He was aware that he ground to a halt in the midst of the hall's carnage. He was aware of blood, still wet, seeping through his ruined shoe and coating the bottom of his feet with gore.

'Why are you angry?' asked the voice.

'Because he's so infuriating, because he constantly thinks he knows better, because he treats me like an idiot.'

'And those are reasons worth destroying him for?'

'Yes,' replied Harry at once , but then faltered. 'No.'

So why was he so angry? Why had he drawn the sword? Why was he ready to destroy Sternley? Was he going mad?

'It's an enchantment," said the voice.

'How do I beat it?'

'Clear your mind.'

Anger surged through Harry again. 'Clear your mind'. What sort of advice was that? Harry wanted to tell the voice where to shove his clear mind.

'That's the enchantment speaking,' said the voice. 'Clear your mind.'

Anger washed over Harry, followed by an intense concentration, followed by more, harrowing anger. Harry's face screwed up from the strain of all the competing emotions in his head.

'If you're too weak to beat this,' said the voice calmly. 'You'll be lost to the madness. You'll tear Sternley apart and then yourself. You've been stronger than this in the past. Are you going to be weak now?'

Harry growled. He'd show that voice. He hadn't ever been weak. He wouldn't be weak. He wasn't ever going to be weak again.

With his anger and his concentration working together now, in unison, Harry focused more intently than he'd ever had before. He urged every inch of his mind to push every extraneous little bit of thought and emotion out of his brain. Crushing anything that popped into his head with intense ruthlessness.

The world around him seemed to grow darker, the room narrowing in his vision until it was nothing more than a pinprick of light. Until there was nobody in the world but Harry. The plastered walls began to smudge and it was an invisible hand was squeezing the world, manipulating the very fabric of the reality.

But none of this bothered Harry. He stood, calm and relaxed, his eyelids heavy and his heartbeat stilled to a murmur.

'Clear your mind.'

The three words hung on the breeze, as literal and physical as the fingers on his hand. Three words of blue dust that floated from the ceiling and suffused Harry, bathing him in understanding. In that instant, everything became clear; Sternley, the Sword, the Anglia, the Lynx, the basilisk, the disembodied voice, Ksheta, the Eagle and Valbonë. He understood all the mysteries that had been dancing around him for so long. Understood it all, his place in the world — but it was momentary, fleeting and elapsed as soon as it came.

The knowledge fell from him like a tonne of bricks, leaving him empty. Like someone had drained the life out of him. The loss was almost physical and he staggered for a moment. Even the memory of the truth he'd possessed began to ebb away. He couldn't even recall how it'd been to possess it and maintained only a vague awareness that he'd ever had it at all.

"Harry?" asked Sternley, sounding confused and worried.

Harry once again annoyance surge up inside him, a homicidal wave of anger that wanted him to destroy everything around him. But it was different this time, now he felt the magic working. Instead of experiencing the emotion, it was like a headache, invasive, unpleasant, but surmountable.

He pushed the feelings aside.

"There's an enchantment here, a strong one, it's what made the goblins do this," he hissed from between gritted teeth.

"You're resisting it? How?"

"I almost didn't. By clearing my mind."

"By clearing your—" began Sternley, but then the hat fell silent and thoughtful.

Harry picked his way around the death on the floor, stumbled through the door at the other end of the atrium. The enchantment passed and let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. He slumped to his knees, body trembling, the aroma of blood still heavy in his mouth and nose.

He knelt for a while and took deep gulps of air.

"Harry, what made you clear your mind?"

Harry noticed something else in his head, a little like the pushing, invasive enchantment, but softer, more subtle. He cleared his mind as best he could and it disappeared.

"I dunno, natural reaction," he said. "I could feel it inside my head so I just pulled everything else out, gave it nothing to work on."

Harry knew Sternley was scrutinising his words from atop his head. He wondered why he was lying to the hat, was it just because Sternley had reacted in such an angry manner when he'd mentioned it before? Or could it have been what he'd been told last year? 'Even in the wizarding world, hearing voices isn't a good sign.'

Harry pushed the thoughts away; he wasn't mad. Something was going on, that was all. Sooner or later he'd find someone who'd help him with it. Dumbledore would know.

Except that Sternley had the best advice short of Dumbledore. Perhaps might even know more about it than Dumbledore did. So why didn't he say anything?

"I see," replied the hat, his confused tone undermining his point. "Well, good job for figuring it out. You did the right thing."

Harry nodded, his gut still wracked with turmoil. Half heartedly he pushed this away too, then clambered to his feet and looked about him.

The room he was in was small and, at least to Harry's untrained eye, looked more like the inside of a swimming pool changing room than a place of worship. The floor and walls were clad with tiles, on one side of the room were racks and racks of shelves, upon which sat a half dozen pair of shoes. On the other wall were what appeared to be long grill covered troughs, with taps above and chairs before them.

Even though the mosque was as silent as the grave, Harry lingered, an awkward feeling in his stomach. As though he were intruding on something personal and secret. He looked back to where he'd walked blood on the tiles and shuddered. It appeared that he was required, by the traditions of the place, to remove his shoes before progressing. Somehow it seemed a travesty to walk blood through a place of worship, yet he didn't dare surrender them.

The idea of fighting a basilisk bare-footed was just ridiculous.

In the end, he settled for removing his shoes and socks and washing them in water from one of the taps. Disgusting, blood-stained mess dribbled into the porcelain beneath the grills before gurgling out of sight down the plug hole. Harry pulled them back on, they were cold and wet, but much cleaner. He wondered if he were being foolish, if he weren't overreacting. There wasn't anyone here to see him. There wasn't any escaping the massacred goblins in the atrium either.

But somehow it had seemed an important thing to observe it. Or at least make an effort.

"Do wizards have a religion?" he asked Sternley, his curiosity bubbling over before he could stop it.

The hat was taken off guard by this abrupt question.

"Uh, only the usual ones, I suppose," he said, sounding a little confused. Harry thought he might have interrupted Sternley's train of thought. "Normally only the muggleborns, too. Wizards don't set much stock in that sort of thing. I suppose when you grow up with miracles commonplace it doesn't really seem relevant."

Harry considered this and nodded. It made sense, he supposed.

He pushed a little further on into the mosque, moving from this room into another long corridor. He noted with interest that one wall was broken at regular intervals by wide arches that all led into the same enormous, carpeted room. Harry stuck his head through the first arch he came to and peered around in interest. He supposed this was where the local community would congregate. He thought he recalled, possibly from Primary School, that they would pray five times a day.

The thick, plain carpet on the ground certainly looked comfortable enough to do a lot of kneeling. But the room, despite being enormous, was empty, with nowhere to hide an enormous snake. Nonetheless, Harry was very twitchy, having already fought a basilisk and not relishing having to do so again.

"Well, well, well" came a familiar voice from over his shoulder.

His reaction was immediate and violent; Harry spun on his heel, sword poised for a strike that would take the speaker through the throat. A strike that he never made.

Because the sight of the person who stood behind him stunned him so much that he couldn't move a muscle.

"Hello, Harry Potter," said the sixteen year old Tom Riddle. "It's good to see you again."

Harry shook his head in disbelief.

"You're can't be real," he said. "I destroyed the diary. You were only a memory."

"A good hypothesis," admitted Tom, walking closer to Harry, his dark eyes glittering. "Except, I can touch you now."

And with that, he prodded the point of Harry's blade with his index finger.

Then both of them watched, one in fascination and the other in horror, as blood trickled from his fingertip.


	35. Chapter 35

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë**  
**Chapter Thirty Five**

The blood ran down the length of the blade and then dripped to the floor. The sound of the droplets striking the floor echoed around the room until they sounded like a cannon in Harry's head.

Bang, bang, bang, bang.

Like the heartbeat of an enormous monster. Harry might have preferred that.

"Am I actually seeing him?" asked Harry.

"Unless we've both gone simultaneously gone mad," offered Sternley, his tone grave. "But the odds of that—"

"Are very unlikely," finished Harry, swallowing.

For his part, Tom Riddle just stared, dark malicious eyes burrowing into Harry's. Part of Harry wanted to strike out with the sword and sever the boy's head from his shoulders. The other part was frozen in terror, to afraid to move, let alone attack.

"How are you here?" he whispered.

"How am I here?" asked Tom, in a mocking, sing-song voice. "What do you think, Harry Potter?"

"I don't understand, Dumbledore said—"

Tom Riddle's laugh was high-pitched and terrible. His lips drew back over his teeth in a horrific parody of a smile and his eyes flickered red, just for a moment.

"Dumbledore said, did he?" he said, dark merriment still ringing in his tone. "Guess what, Harry Potter. Dumbledore doesn't know everything. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that Dumbledore knows almost nothing about anything. He's old and senile and can't protect you from—"

"SHUT UP!" shouted Harry, finding his voice. "JUST SHUT UP. YOU'RE WRONG."

Tom Riddle laughed again.

"What a dashing retort," he chortled. "'Shut up', he says. Stung did it, that one? Came a bit too close to the truth?"

"Dumbledore is a better wizard than you'll ever be," snarled Harry. "We beat you in the chamber."

"We?" asked Riddle. "I didn't see anyone but you. Dumbledore was there in spirit, was he?"

"He sent me Fawkes, and Sternley."

"As I said in the Chamber," scoffed Riddle. "A songbird and an old hat. If Dumbledore cared, if he could protect you, don't you think that he'd come himself? No, Dumbledore is a scared old man and you survived by luck. Just as you always have."

"That's not true."

Riddle screwed up his face in scorn, pushed the blade aside and made to step closer to Harry. The fear that had kept Harry frozen to the spot vanished. He leapt backward, sword ready to strike. Tom stopped coming forward, but didn't look impressed or alarmed. If anything he looked rather bored.

Every inch of Harry was screaming at him to strike, to run Tom through, but something stopped him. A nagging voice in his head told him that Riddle was right. That Dumbledore wasn't here to save him.

"If Dumbledore is so great," continued Riddle. "Why isn't he here, protecting you? If he's so great, why hasn't he sorted out this whole Albanian Ministry thing? Why hasn't he sorted out the goblins? Why hasn't he come to protect his precious boy-who-lived? Why couldn't he even stop me from killing Ginevra Weasley?"

Harry's mouth went dry.

"What do you mean?" he asked, voice hoarse. "What do you mean, killed her?"

Riddle's eyes went wide with surprise.

"Oh, you believed her safe?" he asked and then he laughed again. "Dumbledore didn't even tell you? The Dark Lord's possession isn't that easy to overcome. All you did was buy her a few more months. She withered away into nothing a few days after you left."

"No she didn't!" shouted Harry, shaking now. "You're lying."

Tom Riddle shrugged.

"How else would I be here?" he asked. "How else could I be?"

Harry didn't have an answer.

"I almost feel sorry for you, Harry Potter," said Tom, turning and walking a few steps away. "You saw in the diary how Albus Dumbledore treated me, but what he's done to you is far worse. He made you trust him and strung you along in his silly little games."

Harry's brain felt like it had been smashed to pieces, or like someone had thrown something into the cogs. His thoughts were coming to a standstill, nothing was making any sense.

"Harry, don't listen," urged Sternley. "He's—"

"Oh shut up, hat," snapped Tom, whirling around. "Dumbledore's little spy. You've been whispering in Harry's ear all this time, haven't you? You were the next helpful friend that Dumbledore conveniently placed in his path, like Hagrid and Hermione and Ron and Ginny before you.

"That little motivation to help him overcome the next big obstacle in the path Dumbledore has laid out for him. Aren't you suspicious, Harry Potter, that you were in Dumbledore's office when all this started? Aren't you suspicious that in your fragile, broken state you chose the Sorting Hat and the sword of Gryffindor? The very same tools Dumbledore sent his defender. What are the odds?"

Harry felt like he'd been drenched in cold water. It wasn't true, but it all made sense in a weird sort of way. Like he'd been doing a jigsaw puzzle upside down and someone had just walked into the room and flipped it round. As though now he saw the bigger picture and his whole understanding of it had fundamentally changed.

If it were true, he daren't trust Dumbledore, or Sternley, or the Anglia or even the sword. He couldn't even trust Ksheta or any of the other creatures he'd met while in Valbonë.

His head was spinning. It wasn't true. But somehow it was all clicking into place. Somehow it did make sense.

The corners of Tom Riddle's lips curled upwards in a triumphant smile.

'No it doesn't,' came a gentle voice in the back of his head. 'It doesn't make sense.'

Harry shook his head. Where was that voice coming from?

'Think about it. Even if you accept what he's telling you as truth, how does Tom Riddle know? Say he drained the life from Ginny and escaped here; how did he learn of what happened in Dumbledore's tower? How could he know that you took the sword or hat with you? He's lying.'

'He's manipulating me,' thought Harry and his head began whirring again, his brain making connections at lightning speed.

'And doing a damn good job of it,' replied the voice. 'But you're cleverer than this boy. How could he know?'

'He's in my head?'

The voice laughed.

'Better, but no. I'm already in here and let me tell you, your mind isn't big enough for three. I'd know if he were. Now concentrate!'

And Harry thought. Because now that he was thinking with a clear mind, it was obvious, wasn't it. In fact, he'd known it right from the beginning. The very first words he'd said, the very first inclination he'd had.

"You're not real," said Harry, his breath escaping in a sigh and his entire body deflating as he said the words.

Tom Riddle blinked and frowned.

"What did you say?" he barked.

"You're not real," repeated Harry, his voice stronger and more adamant. "You can't be. Only three people knew what happened in Dumbledore's office. One of them is miles away and he'd never tell you. One of them is a hat and he'd never tell you either and then there's me."

Harry licked his lips and jutted out his jaw.

"So somehow, you're playing me. You know what I'm scared of and you're using that against me. And what's more, you're not even Tom Riddle."

Tom blinked and scowled, opened his mouth to reply but Harry spoke across him.

"Tom Riddle isn't an idiot. He's failed before because he talked for too long instead of simply killing me. He wouldn't make that mistake again."

Without giving any overt indication or warning, Harry flashed the sword out, aiming for Riddle's neck. The blade went clean through and out the other side; no blood, no decapitation, just a wisp of dark smoke that followed the blade. Harry glanced down, the blade was clean, even the blood that had dripped to the floor had disappeared.

"Smoke and mirrors," chuckled Harry, then he looked up into the eyes of Tom Riddle and his voice became as hard as stone. "Come on then, what are you? Speak up, or are you afraid?"

With those words came a sound like a thunderclap and the room's magic peeled away. The pristine white walls turned to ash, revealing dark, cracked plaster beneath. The ceiling, high and domed, shook and then collapsed inward without a sound or movement. Beneath Harry's feet, instead of thick, plush carpet, were cracked and broken flags, littered with broken glass.

But none of these things held any interest to Harry. Not when compared with the creature which had appeared before him.

A grey, skeletal figure had materialised ten feet away from him. It hung there, suspended by thick, black chains that swooped down from the ceiling and were attached to the creature's manacled wrists. It was draped in what, from a distance, looked like cloth but as Harry approached, he realised was smoke that clung to the figure like thin material.

As Harry approached, it became obvious that this was not a man, indeed it looked like nothing Harry had ever seen before. The creature was very tall and thin, with flawless pale skin, stretched over jutting bones. It was humanoid, but proportioned in a way that would have been grotesque if it didn't cut such a serenely sad figure.

The creature raised its head as Harry drew near and despite the smoke that billowed as it moved, Harry just about saw the shape of what looked like antlers. Harry had never seen anything that looked so bizarre and alien. Yet he didn't feel the slightest hint of fear as he stepped forward and gazed into its deep, sorrowful eyes.

"What are you?" asked Harry and his heart almost broke as it gave a sorrowful moan.

"I think," said Sternley from his head. "You're one of a very few wizards to look upon the natural form of a boggart. Or, at least, what's left of this one."

"What's a boggart?"

"A shapeshifter. It takes the form of whatever it thinks will scare you most. That's what it feeds on, fear. Nonetheless, mostly harmless."

"What's happened to it?"

If hats could shrug, Sternley did now.

"Something terribly evil, I dare say. I think someone's reversed engineered the boggart's natural magic enough to used it to fuel the enchantments on this room. Almost torturing it to death in the process."

"That's—" began Harry, but couldn't find a word to describe the heinousness of such a thing. "Can we help it?"

"I'm not sure. I can't even imagine what would begin to happen if you broke those chains. Tearing apart a creature's natural magic and binding it to something artificial— That's not only unimaginably evil, but horrendously dangerous."

Harry stared up at the figure, which gave a valiant little struggle against the chains that held it to no avail. He could see that it had pitiful little strength remaining and it only managed a few, faint tugs at the chains before slumping down, defeated.

Harry couldn't bear it any longer. He lifted Vocerr's sword and swung it, the blade whistling through the air and severing the chain holding the creature aloft. Metal struck metal and the chain gave way with a sound like the clang of a heavy bell.

The thick, black chain, suddenly split, screamed so loudly it set Harry's ears ringing. Dark, acrid smoke billowing from the wound Harry had inflicted. A bolt of purple lightning shot up the length of the metal to strike the ceiling, which cracked the plaster and sent a cascade of dust raining down on them.

The boggart, now free of one mooring, swung like a pendulum on its remaining chain. Harry struck again and the second chain broke with another loud chime. It too began to scream and also produced the smoke. A second bolt of purple lightning ran its length and struck the roof, this time bringing chunks of brick raining to the ground.

The creature sank to the floor, seeming to float through smoke as it fell and collapsed beneath its own weight. Harry darted forward and fell to his knees, lifting the nearly weightless head into his lap. For a moment, he found himself cradling the visage of Tom Riddle, which stared at him, near sightless.

"Thank you, Harry Potter," it whispered. "You have nothing to fear."

Then it dissolved into smoke.

Harry didn't have time to consider these words, for an almighty groaning came from above. Harry glanced up and was just fast enough to roll away from a downpour of bricks and mortar.

He wasted no time in leaping to his feet and looking to the exit.

The ceiling, irreparably damaged by the release of the boggart, began crashing down around him. Lumps the size of Harry smashed into the floor, pelting him with shrapnel that cut his arms and face. He staggered aside, wiped blood from his eyes and stepped out of the way of another lump of rubble.

"Quick, Harry," said Sternley. "Over there."

Harry looked in the direction the hat was indicating and saw a small door in the closest wall. He knew with absolute certainty it hadn't been there when he'd entered the room. But in the current state of affairs, he wasn't about to argue and flung himself in that direction.

Half running, half falling, Harry collapsed through the doorway and turned to look back into the room. Just in time to see an enormous lump of brick and plaster crash down where he'd been standing a split second earlier and block the doorway.

"Well that was lucky," he shouted, through the cloud of dust and above the din.

A moment later the crashing noises stopped and Harry took stock of his situation. He appeared to be at the base of a tall spiral stairwell. He climbed two steps in order to get a better view up, but the curve of the staircase made it impossible to tell how far it went up.

"Well, on the positive side," whispered Harry, in the silence. "We're no longer in danger of being crushed to death by a building."

"And on the negative," countered Sternley. "We've only one direction we can go and any chance of stealth has been lost."

"Meh, stealth is overrated," replied Harry, with a shrug. "Far too predictable. Give me a good old full frontal assault any day, nobody ever sees that coming."


	36. Chapter 36

**A/N - You guys are absolutely incredible. That is all. **

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë**  
**Chapter Thirty Six**

Harry took a few moments to sit on the stairs and tear another length from his already ruined shirt. He gazed down at the tattered, filthy mess and sighed. At this rate, he'd have nothing left of it. He wiped away the worst of the blood from around his eyes and from his forehead, noting as he did how dirty the rag came away from his skin.

It would be just his luck to survive goblins, boggarts and oiks, just to be killed by a blood infection.

He tied the stained strip of material around his head, to keep hair and blood out of his eyes. Then he looked to Sternley, who he'd placed a few steps up.

"How do I look?" he asked, standing and shrugging the shirt back on.

"Like a pirate," replied Sternley, without any trace of amusement.

Harry glanced down and found himself forced to admit that the hat was right. Between the discoloured headband, his torn trousers, the ripped shirt and the large sword in his hands, he looked every inch a cartoon pirate.

"Not exactly the way you want to head into battle," he reflected, his tone rueful.

"I dunno," offered Sternley. "It's intimidating in a straight-jacket, padded room sort of way."

"Ah, so that's the tactic then, pretend I'm nuts and the basilisk will run away in fear?"

"Why pretend?" asked Sternley and Harry offered him a cross-eyed, lopsided smile that had them both chuckling.

"Ah, gallows humour," Harry chuckled, wiping dirt from his eyes. He sighed and then looked up the stairs. "Onwards and upwards then."

He lifted Sternley back onto his head and began climbing the stairs. One foot placed before the other, sword held poised to thrust, for what seemed like forever. Only the irregular slit windows gave him any indication of how high he was climbing.

"I guess we're going up that big tower we spotted earlier," said Harry after about five minutes of endless climbing.

"I guess we are too."

"It hardly seems worth it. The top of the tower looked tiny from below. Hardly the place to keep an enormous snake."

"Well I wouldn't have kept one in the mouth of Salazar Slytherin either. Just goes to show you never can tell, these dark wizards have funny thoughts sometimes."

"I'm not sure who's more mad, in truth," replied Harry. "The daft idiots keeping them or the daft idiots trying to stick them with swords."

"Certainly the latter, on the topic of which, keep yours ready."

Harry was aware that the weight of Vocerr's sword was beginning to take its toll; his arms had begun to sag with the effort of holding it. He braced himself and hoisted it back into a striking position.

In truth, Harry wasn't sure just how effective the blade would be in the narrow confines of the stairwell. But neither was he ready to use his wand. He knew that the moment he cast a spell, the game was up and within the hour he'd be locked in an Albanian jail cell.

Needless to say, he wasn't ready for that to happen quite yet.

As it happened, he didn't have to find out just how practical the sword was in such close quarters He reached the top of the staircase unmolested by basilisks or aurors. At the summit, he found a small wooden door with the design of an eagle carved into it; a single piece of amber glass representing a gleaming eye.

"That's creepy," said Harry. "Do you think it's supposed to be Vocerr?"

"I don't know," replied Sternley. "Don't the Albanian's have an eagle on their flag?"

"Yeah, but I'm pretty sure it's got two heads."

"Very strange," remarked Sternley. "Has he led us into a trap maybe?"

"Who knows?" replied Harry. "If he has, there's not much else we can do but spring it, I suppose."

"Through the door?" asked Sternley.

"Through the door," confirmed Harry and pushed at the wood.

The door swung open on well oiled hinges, opening into a room at least ten times larger than Harry could have expected. It took him a half minute of gaping, to realise that magic was at work and to look past the much larger room at what was inside.

Harry had seen enough of Dumbledore's office to recognise another wizard's study when he saw one. An enormous desk occupied one side of the circular room, littered with open books, quills and crumpled parchment. To the left of the over sized desk, sat an equally large chest, with an oversized golden padlock hanging from the clasp. To the right stood a majestic mahogany wardrobe, door hanging ajar.

A veritable treasure-trove of enchanted artefacts, magical tomes and doohickeys filled every other inch of the room. Some the likes of which he was sure he'd seen before in Dumbledore's office, others looked bizarre and still more looked outright evil.

But the most obvious feature of the office was that it was devoid of life. There was no sign of either basilisks or dark wizards. Unless dark creatures or sorcerers were hiding in amongst the piles of books, Harry had his run of the place.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, then turned to face the astonishing sight before him.

Even with as little enchanting experience as he possessed, Harry knew that he'd struck the jackpot here. He moved from item to item, careful not to touch, but examining each with an appreciative eye. Even Sternley seemed impressed with some of the items.

"That's an Iconosphere," he said, as Harry examined a glass ball encased in a brass ring. "If you suspend it over tea-leaves it'll read them for you. Very rare."

"What's this one?" asked Harry, turning to a collection of tall, thin pipes attached to an array of buttons. It looked like, if anything, a weird, miniature organ.

"Now this I've only ever read about," said Sternley, in what sounded like an awed voice. "The Sopomancer's Calliope. When played by anyone, it'll put everyone in earshot but the player to sleep. But when played well, by the right wizard, it can also be used to induce dreams or nightmares of the player's creation."

Harry's fingers floated above the keyboard, but he hesitated, then thought better of it.

"I know what these are," he said, coming to a stack of what looked like cannonballs against the far wall, but that he recognised as probolators. "Something about the feel of them, maybe."

"Yeah, I'd steer clear of those, if I were you. You can't ever know how sensitive they might be," replied Sternley, then shook in excitement on Harry's head when they moved on to the next item. "That's an Atharvavedic Trumpet! I haven't seen one of those in at least two centuries."

Harry looked at the enormous silver artefact and blinked. It looked like an odd cross between an ear trumpet and a gramophone horn.

"Put it to your ear and you'll hear the nearest conversation as though the speakers were having it right next to you."

Harry frowned and then, in a sudden fit of impulsiveness, lifted the device and pressed the smaller end to his ear. For a moment, all that was audible were the gentle whispers of the breeze, as though someone was holding a seashell to his ear. He was on the verge of tossing it back down when he caught the sound of a voice.

"Do you think it escaped by itself?" asked a voice, his dignified, aristocratic tones marred somewhat by exhaustion.

"No I don't," hissed another, sounding frustrated.

"And you don't think the goblins freed it by accident?"

"No, I don't. Fool," snapped the second. "You know as well as I that it would have required a skilled wizard to break those enchantments."

"There was no evidence of magic, my lord."

"Only further proving that it was a skilled wizard, you imbecile. Sometimes, Lucius, I am flabbergasted by your utter stupidity."

"As you say, my lord," came the reply, sounding terse and irritated.

"Don't slow down. We're nearly at the top and I need feeding, Lucius."

Harry dropped the trumpet and looked around in wild panic.

"What is it?" hissed Sternley, sounding worried.

"It's Voldemort," replied Harry, his voice breaking halfway through the name. "And Lucius Malfoy. They're coming up the stairs."

Harry's heart was beating ten to the dozen, adrenaline coursing through his body.

"Quick," snapped Sternley, his voice sundering the confusing fog of panic that overwhelmed Harry's brain. "Into the wardrobe."

Harry moved as fast as he could, flinging open the large mahogany doors and forcing himself inside amongst the thick robes and capes that hung inside. Then closed himself in. Seconds later he heard the door of the room open and footsteps enter.

"Should I search the room for the intruders, my lord?"

"Search for intruders, Lucius?" asked Voldemort, in a scathing voice. "Do you think them hiding in wait amongst the stacks of parchment? Lurking in the wardrobe, perhaps?"

"I suppose not, my lord."

There was a momentary silence as they seemed to be concentrating on navigating the room's stacks of artefacts.

Harry's brain, which had been silenced by adrenaline, now began to work. How could Voldemort be here? But he remembered Dumbledore once telling him rumours that Voldemort was lurking in Albania? And Harry, in his stupidity, had come straight to him. And Lucius? The last time Harry had seen him, he'd been in England. How could any of this be happening? It was like some sort of terrifying nightmare.

"I have always loathed this place, Lucius," remarked Voldemort. "In some ways— Put me in the chair. Carefully! Carefully, you fool! —In some ways it makes me glad we're going to have to move."

"Move, my lord?"

"Do you propose we remain here? With the building falling down around our ears?"

"I suppose not, my lord."

But Harry wasn't listening, his brain was too busy working. He'd hought Vocerr was being literal, but he'd meant Voldemort. Voldemort was a descendant of Salazaar Slytherin, as much a snake as any scaled reptile. The powerful enchantments, Vocerr's words, Ksheta's warnings. It'd been screaming in his face the entire time. How hadn't he seen it sooner?

"I'm hungry Lucius," said Voldemort, his voice quiet and soft. Perhaps even vulnerable, if such a thing were possible. "Where is Nagini? I do hope she wasn't injured in the attack."

"Hopefully she's dead," came Lucius' muttered response, from closer to the wardrobe than Harry would've liked.

Harry curled his fingers tight around the grip of his sword. Now horribly aware that he had spent too many minutes in too confined a space. He wasn't ready to fight, his muscles would be cramped, his reactions slowed. Harry wondered if he ought to draw his wand, but hesitated.

"What was that?" snapped Voldemort. "Speak up, man."

"I said I can't imagine she's dead, my lord," called back Lucius.

What chance did he even stand with a wand against Lucius Malfoy and the most feared dark wizard in the world?

"Do you think me a fool, Lucius?"

"No, my lord."

Perhaps the sword would be better. If he could deal with Lucius quickly, could he reach Voldemort before—

"Then keep your mouth shut and fetch me an extra cloak."

"Yes, my lord."

Then the wardrobe door was flung open, the sudden bright light all but blinding Harry. All he could see was Lucius Malfoy's astonished expression as he stared down at the young wizard crouching in the bottom of his wardrobe.

"You!?" he gasped, in almost theatrical surprise.

"YEAAAAARGGGHHHHHH DIIIIIIIEEEEE!" roared Harry, screaming with inarticulate rage as he burst from the confines of the cupboard, stabbing wildly with Vocerr's sword.


	37. Chapter 37

**A/N - Sorry for the lack of an update yesterday. It's a Bank Holiday here in the UK, which meant I had today off work. Which inevitably led to a barbeque yesterday, which, in turn, led to one too many beers. A brief warning: this chapter isn't all sunshines and rainbows (you may have guessed this). I just thought it worth mentioning. Enjoy. **

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë**  
**Chapter Thirty Seven**

In some ways, Lucius Malfoy might have been considered sublimely unlucky. After all, just how often is it that a wizard opens his wardrobe to discover a dirty, angry, half-mad Boy Who Lived wearing the Hogwarts sorting hat and wielding the sword of an ancient demi-god?

In other ways, Lucius Malfoy might just have been the luckiest wizard that had ever graced the surface of the world. For each of the half dozen or so wild thrusts Harry made with his sword in Lucius Malfoy's defenceless direction met nothing but cloth and air.

Whether through complete misfortune or general panic, Harry managed to trip and come crashing down on Lucius Malfoy, but failed to injure his foe in the slightest. Beside perhaps a bruised back and ego.

Harry, in an attempt to rectify this mistake, lifted the sword again.

"HARRRRRRRRGHGHHHH!" yelled Harry, bringing the blade down at his opponent's heart.

"HARRRRRRGHGHHHHHH!" yelled Lucius Malfoy in response, turning aside at the last moment, thereby avoiding the sword point and tossing Harry aside.

It was at this moment that Harry decided that he had lost the element surprise and therefore the advantange and so flung himself low amongst the maze of enchanted objects. No sooner had he done this, than a yellow curse whizzed overhead and exploded against the far wall.

"ITS POTTER!" screamed Voldemort in a shrill voice from somewhere over by the desk. "WHAT IS POTTER DOING HERE?!"

'Potter', currently preoccupied with crawling around on his belly to gain a more advantageous position, wished he knew the answer to that question himself.

"I don't know, my lord," came Lucius' feeble response, his voice was thin and distant. Harry was pretty sure that he'd winded the wizard, though he thought it unfortunate that he hadn't done more damage.

"WELL DON'T JUST SIT THERE!" roared Voldemort. "KILL HIM YOU FOOL!"

Harry couldn't help but wonder why Voldemort showed no desire to do the killing himself, but decided that this wasn't the time to start counting his blessings. After all, Lucius Malfoy was more than enough dark wizard to be going on with.

Speaking of which, Harry caught sight of Malfoy stalking along the stacks of items a little way away from him. So he crawled on until he was behind a larger pile, where he might rise to his knees and still be a little better hidden.

"Come out, come out, where ever you are," came the sing-song voice of Lucius Malfoy, sounding far closer than Harry would have liked.

"Leave me here, hidden in this stack," whispered Sternley.

Harry didn't have time to argue, he did as the hat commanded, hoping that his friend had an ingenious plot up his— Did hats have sleeves? Harry shook this thought from his head and crawled on, further from Malfoy.

"Come here Potter," hissed the silver-haired enchanter. "We've got some unfinished business to attend to."

"Whatever do you mean?" asked Sternley, in an astonishingly accurate impression of Harry. "Unfinished business? What are you blathering on about you cretinous flange?"

Harry had to stifle giggles. He'd caught on to Sternley's plan and had begun to double back, keeping low amongst the piles of junk, but coming up on Lucius's flank.

"You cost me my servant, boy," he heard Lucius hiss. "Not to mention my house, my professional standing and my reputation."

"Talk sense," demanded Sternley, still impersonating Harry. "Or did your mother mate with a twazzock?"

Whatever a twazzock was, Harry wasn't sure. But he couldn't help the snort of laughter that came, despite the intense rush of adrenaline he'd been riding since bursting out of the wardrobe. Luckily, Lucius didn't seem to notice.

"Did you really think Albus Dumbledore would let an attempt on the life of a student go unpunished? That interfering old fossil ruined me."

"So what you mean is," continued Sternley. "Is that your master plan was foiled by a twelve year old? Well, in that case, you've only really got yourself to blame, haven't you? You odious twonk."

"When I catch you Potter, I'm going to slow roast your eyeballs and—"

"STOP TALKING ABOUT IT AND KILL HIM!" screamed Voldemort across the room, banging something in the distance. "I WANT HIM DEAD, LUCIUS. BRING ME HIS HEART!"

"Oi Lucius. Behind you, you plebeian gitwizard— HARRY NOW!"

Harry burst from cover, swinging his sword at Lucius Malfoy's back. To the wizard's credit and despite the surprise of the attack, he managed to turn aside. The strike Harry had intended to bisect him head to toe only scored a cut across his shoulder.

"ARGHHH!" roared Lucius, but managed to raise his wand despite the pain.

Harry began to duck but a second later there was a bang like a cannon and Harry flew a good twenty feet across the room, where he landed with a crash amongst a set of armour. A metal gauntlet from the set sprang to life and seized Harry around the throat, attempting to choke the life out of him. Harry rolled off the pile of bent metal, only just avoiding a bright green curse that blew the chest-plate into fragments of smoking scrap.

Harry managed to wrench the gauntlet from around his throat and throw it into the face of Lucius as he rounded a tower of parchment. It wrapped its enormous grasp around the man's head and began to squeeze, eliciting a squeal of pain from the silver haired wizard.

Harry readied his blade and charged Lucius, cradling the sword like a lance. At the pivotal moment, however, Lucius managed to wrench the armoured glove from his face, which sent him toppling over backwards, taking the stack of papers with him.

Harry felt his feet tangle with Malfoy's and then he was down on the ground too. He struck out once, twice with his blade, catching Malfoy in the leg with the second strike.

Blood gleamed red on Harry's blade and as he brought it down a third time, Malfoy's wand snaked out and the sword wrenched its self from Harry's hand. It landed with a clatter on the stone floor several feet away.

"KILL HIM!"

Triumph gleamed in Malfoy's eyes as he readied his wand for a deadly curse. But Harry, quick as a flash, grabbed the Iconosphere from the table above his head and brought it crashing down on Malfoy's unprotected face.

And in that instant, the fight changed.

Until that precise moment, Harry hadn't been particularly frightened; the fight hadn't seemed real, as though it were somehow a dream being lived by someone else. The shattering Iconosphere brought Harry back to reality with an uncomfortable lurch and an instant later, terror was arcing through him.

Malfoy screamed as glass and blood sprayed everywhere. Harry scrambled away across the floor, the shards of glass cutting his own hands and knees as he made for his sword. His fingers just brushed the hilt as a hand wrapped around his ankle and dragged him backwards, away from the blade. He turned on to his back and saw the ruined, bleeding, glittering face of Lucius Malfoy glaring daggers at him.

Harry kicked out, once, twice, three times. Slamming the heel of his shoe into Malfoy's nose until the wizard released him with a grunt.

Harry made for the sword again, sobs catching in his throat as he scrabbled across the floor. His own blood mixing with that of Lucius as the glass tore at every exposed inch of flesh it could find. There wasn't any adrenaline coursing through him now, just fear. The fight had started with an explosive fire in Harry's belly, but the reality of the situation dawned on him now and had extinguished the flames with terror.

"HARRY!" screamed Sternley, sounding terrified, something Harry hadn't ever heard before.

The fingers of his left hand closed around the hilt and he turned, just in time to catch Lucius' piercing curse to his neck. His blood splattered across the ground and he sprawled across the ground with a strangled yell. Refusing to give in, refusing to succumb, Harry dragged himself behind a wall of junk, and then lifted his hand to his throat. It came away thick with blood, but nothing like the heavy arterial pump he'd feared.

Harry caught movement and an incantation, he began to shift, but was too slow to avoid the wall of enchanted objects that exploded, throwing him to the floor again. As fast as he could he sprang upwards, sword coming down in a glittering arc. But this time Malfoy was ready and caught Vocerr's sword on a blade of blistering flame which emanated from his wand.

Steel met fire in a cascade of blistering sparks, and then the steel gave way and the sword sheared midway down the blade. Harry flung himself aside to avoid the fire and then brought the remaining half sword up to strike out at Lucius.

Except he didn't.

Because the sword had vanished.

As had his left hand.

Harry paused, aghast, eyes fixated on the smouldering stump where he'd once possessed a hand. Malfoy's fireblade had passed straight through and cauterised the wound without him even registering the pain.

"DIE!" roared Malfoy, bringing the blade to bear on Harry once more.

But an odd state of consciousness had overcome Harry; like the world was in slow motion and in that moment, he could read the fight like an open book. He saw the construction of Malfoy's strike; completely out of control. Unprepared, unbalanced, unskilled. No longer did he see the hateful dark wizard, who wanted to destroy him. Instead all he saw was an opponent, like the oiks and the goblins before him. Just another slab of meat to cut aside.

He stepped aside and tripped his opponent, sending him crashing, face first, to the ground. But before Lucius had even been bested by gravity, Harry was already moving. His other foot arcing out into a perfect scissor kick that caught the dark wizard in the chest. Harry heard bones give as Lucius' ribs collapsed in on themselves.

Then the feeling escaped as swiftly as it had come and Harry found himself overwhelmed by anger.

"YOU BASTARD!" Harry found himself screaming as he kicked into Lucius' chest again, hearing the broken ribs grind as his foot found the man's unprotected side. "YOU UTTER—"

As he kicked out a third time as Lucius tried to defend the blow. Harry's kick snapped the man's wand, but the parry was enough to set him off balance. He staggered backwards as Lucius Malfoy howled in anger at the loss of his wand.

And in the background, like a disturbing soundtrack, were Voldemort's shrill screams and Sternley's anxious ones.

"KILL HIM! KILL HIM!"

"FIGHT HARRY, FIGHT!"

A second later the silver haired wizard was on him, hands wrapping tight around Harry's throat. The weight of him took Harry off balance and sent the pair of them careening across the room. They crashed into one stack of objects, where Harry's feet found some traction and he thrust them in a different direction, tripping Lucius over some books, stacked knee height.

But the crazed wizard's hands still gripped Harry by the throat, choking the life out of him. A moment later he'd lifted the twelve year old in the air and sent him crashing into another of artefacts. Harry's feet tried to find purchase, but Lucius was pinning him on some sort of ledge and they just scrabbled uselessly against the ground.

"DIEEE!" screamed Malfoy, inches from his face.

He arched his back against the solid object that Lucius had trapped him against in an attempt to wriggle free, but Lucius anticipated him and slammed him down against it. The back of his head bounced like a beach ball. Stars exploded into what little vision Harry still possessed. He struggled again and once more Lucius smashed his head into the wood.

"JUST DIIIIIIIIEEEEE!"

Harry's entire body felt like it was going to explode now, blood had filled his head and a loud ringing had filled his ears. His heartbeat was slowing. His lungs were burning. His vision narrowing until all he could see was Malfoy's broken face, staring down at him. Until all he knew were the drops of Malfoy's warm blood landing on his cheeks and forehead.

Little by little, Harry felt the fight leave him. His hand slipped from around Lucius' wrist, where it'd been struggling to pry the wizard's fingers free. His stump fell to his side, limp and then the other slipped from the older man's hands and hit something as it came to rest.

A weird, piercing note rang through the air and the grip around Harry's throat weakened for a split second.

The last of Harry's feeble brain power spurred itself to life.

With all of his remaining strength, Harry pushed his hand down on the keys of the Sopomancer's Calliope and a deep, crisp note filled the air. The grasp on his neck loosened. Harry hammered down another note. The fingers relaxed again and Harry caught his breath. A third note and Harry's vision began to return. He saw Lucius Malfoy's ruined face leering down at him, but his eyelids were heavy and drooping.

Harry slammed down a final note and the hands released his neck altogether. His entire body moved at once in a single, perfect motion. He lifted his feet and braced himself against the Calliope.

Malfoy's dull, grey eyes flickered open and stared in confusion down at Harry's defiant, brilliant, vivid green ones.

"Sweet dreams, Malfoy," hissed Harry and pushed out with both feet, putting more strength into that one kick than Harry even knew he had in his entire body.

The dark wizard went staggering backwards, hopelessly off balance, his feet scrabbling for purchase on a surface slick with blood.

The last anyone ever saw of Lucius Malfoy was a bewildered expression. Then he collapsed backwards into a stack of prolabators and promptly disappeared in an explosion that shook the tower.


	38. Chapter 38

**A/N - I presume this is going to be one of those chapters where I have dozens of people telling me how ignorant and stupid Harry is. Or how his character is unrealistically noble. I don't mean to discourage you, but obviously I disagree. **

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë  
Chapter Thirty Eight**

The force of the blast had knocked him and the Calliope to the floor. Harry clambered to his knees amongst the shower of rubble and rain of burning parchment. His world was ablaze with pain, from his throat, from his head, from his stump, from a dozen blows and cuts he didn't remember suffering.

He knelt in the wreckage, cradling his severed wrist against his chest, tears of pain and relief welling up inside him. His entire being ached with a deep tiredness, an overwhelming exhaustion that consumed him.

He tried to shout out to Sternley. He hoped beyond hope that the hat hadn't ended up in the half of the tower destroyed by the explosion. However, it appeared his voice didn't want to work. All that came was a scratchy whisper.

"HARRY!?" came Sternley's terrified voice. "HARRY YOU'D BETTER NOT BE DEAD OR I'LL KILL YOU!"

Harry couldn't help himself. He choked out a laugh.

"How?" he asked, his voice more than a little hoarse as it came through his constricted throat. A wave of pain came with each gasping chuckle, but he embraced the solace that washed over him; his friend was okay. "You don't have any arms. And I'd be dead."

"HARRY!" yelled Sternley, relief evident in his voice. "I don't know! I'd have found a way."

Harry clambered to his feet and staggered in the direction of the hat's voice. He found the hat half crushed beneath an enormous chunk of masonry, which he dislodged with a hefty shove of his shoulder and a deep grunt. He picked up the battered hat with his good hand and held him up to the light.

"A good hat brush and you'll be none the worse for wear," he wheezed, relief flooding through him at the sight of his friend, mostly unscathed.

"Wish I might say the same for you," replied Sternley, giving Harry the once over. "How's the stump?"

Harry looked down at it and then wished he hadn't. Though the wound had been well cauterised by the heat of the flame, it still wasn't a pleasant sight.

"Do you think I'd be able to get it reattached?" he asked, looking away.

"Perhaps if you got immediate medical attention from the best healers in Europe," offered Sternley. "Do you have any idea where your hand fell?"

"Somewhere over there," replied Harry, indicating the enormous gaping hole where they had once been a wall, floor and ceiling.

Through the cascade of ash, smoke and debris there peeked the slightest hint of a red sun in the sky above. Strangely enough, Harry could hear birds tweeting and what sounded like the far off call of an eagle.

"Ah," replied Sternley. "Well, more's the pity, I— HARRY, LOOK OUT!"

Harry stepped aside as twenty feet of green missile flew past. Sharp, venomous fangs missing him by inches. Harry seized up a fragment of charred chestplate from the ruined suit of armour and gave the snake a fierce clout in the head as it made a second attempt.

"Not today, thank you," chided Harry and stepped over the snake, which lay dazed on the floor.

He gave it another strike, for good measure and then bundled the entire thing, a difficult task with one hand, into the chest beside the desk. He slammed shut the enormous golden padlock with a satisfying thunk.

"I knew I'd forgotten something," said Harry when he'd finished and turned to the desk. "We were here to kill a snake, weren't we?"

He stepped around the desk and righted the chair where the force of the blast had knocked it over. Beneath it he found the most hideous thing he'd ever seen.

Voldemort, as he was now, looked like nothing more than as though someone had boiled a very ugly baby. His deathly pale skin mottled by red, bulging blisters and this features were even more perverse and distorted than when Harry had seen him last. Unerringly familiar though were those red eyes, black slit pupils staring up at him. Hate ebbing out.

At least that explained why Voldemort had left Malfoy to do his dirty work.

"Hello Voldemort," announced Harry, lifting him by the cape that swaddled him. "Pleased to see you again. I doubt you can say the same."

"Potter," he hissed. "Put me down or—"

"Or what?" challenged Harry, looking at the tiny creature with something between pity and disgust. "You'll dribble on me?"

Voldemort didn't seem to have a response to this, so he contented himself with staring hatefully up at Harry. Except— was that a tiny element of fear that Harry could see in his eyes?

Surely not.

Harry looked from the bundle to his severed wrist and anger bubbled up inside him. He let out a sigh in an attempt to release the pressure that was welling up inside, threatening to boil over.

It didn't help very much.

"You know, I've always been terrified of you. Ever since I first heard your name and learned what you'd done to me. Big, bad Voldemort." Harry stared contemptuously down at Voldemort and then looked back to the stump of his left wrist. "Well— You're not so big and bad, now, are you?"

Voldemort said nothing.

"ANSWER ME!" roared Harry in his face, his entire being suddenly consumed with hatred. "Answer me, damnit! What good are you now? WHAT GOOD ARE ALL YOUR STUPID MAGIC TRICKS AND EAGER LITTLE FOLLOWERS NOW?!" Harry took a deep breath to steady himself and wipe the spittle from his lips with his stump. "Beaten by a baby. Bested by a child, over and over and now, at the utter mercy of a twelve year old. You're pathetic."

Voldemort seemed unimpressed.

"You can't kill me, Potter, I'm immortal. I don't fear you."

"Kill you?" asked Harry, and laughed, manic delight on his face. "Why on earth would I want to kill you? I have all summer to sit up here, alone in this ruined tower, with you all to myself. Kill you? No, no. Why ever would I want to kill you when there's so much fun to be had while you're alive?"

Aside from an almost imperceptible widening of Voldemort's nostrils, he had no reaction.

"I mean that's the slammer really, with immortality, isn't it? I can keep you here in unimaginable pain until I'm bored. And let me tell you, Tom, thanks to you I spent the first eleven years of my life living in a cupboard under the stairs. I don't bore easily."

Harry's grin widened to manic proportions.

"Harry— " began Sternley but Harry ignored him.

"AND!" he yelled, loud enough to cut off the Sorting Hat mid-sentence. "When I am done. I can lock you up in a nice big box with nice big chains and locks and dig a hole so deep and dark and hidden that nothing will ever find you. And then I can bury you there for ever."

If it wasn't fear in Voldemort's eyes, it was worry.

"Potter, we can come to another arrangement," he hissed. "If you return me to my body, I can replace your hand. With a better one, even. I can give you anything you desire."

"A hand?" asked Harry and laughed. "I don't want a new hand."

"Harry—" began Sternley again, but this time it was Voldemort who cut him off.

"What is it you want?" asked Voldemort.

"I WANT MY PARENTS BACK!" roared Harry, his voice breaking and spit flying everywhere.

Both Voldemort and Sternley were quiet now. The silence hung in the air, heavy and oppressive. Harry took a deep breath and rubbed away the tears in his eyes. He knew it wasn't very impressive crying before his greatest enemy, but he couldn't help it.

Every emotion that had consumed him since the Chamber was coming to a head. All of that sadness and terror and fury boiling up into a single emotional outburst. He wanted nothing more than to dash this stupid, cretinous little creatures into a thousand pieces.

"I want everything you stole from me. My parents, my childhood, my life." He was shaking now, unsure if it was anger or grief that caused it. "And you can't do that, can you? You can't offer me that, nobody can."

"Harry—"

He couldn't be sure who'd said that; Voldemort or Sternley. He wasn't listening any more.

"But maybe I can do to you, what you did to me," said Harry, his voice dropping to a low, dark hiss. "Maybe I should break you. Over and over and over, just like you've done to me. And then we'll be the same, won't we Tom? You said that we were similar, in the Chamber. Maybe we're more alike than you thought."

At that moment, the smoke and ash in the air parted just enough for a beam of sunlight to fall out of the sky and land exactly where he stood. He glanced up, looking at the blazing sunshine through the smouldering ruins of the tower. High above the birds sung to the early morning and the breeze whispered around his ears.

"Oh," he said.

Then he laughed and swept fresh tears from his eyes.

In that moment he knew he was right; if Harry succumbed to his impulses, they would be identical. But not because Harry could break Voldemort, that was a laughable idea, but because Harry would be reduced to his level. Goaded into acting like the him, into corrupting himself. And, in the end, that was the way, the only way, the Dark Lord could win.

Harry recognised that was teetering on the edge between all he valued in the world and all he despised in Voldemort. And he was better than that.

He looked back to Voldemort and then, making a decision, lugged the tiny figure over to the enormous chest. He stared into the malevolent crimson eyes and the Dark Lord shied, ever so slightly, away.

Harry took a deep breath and sighed.

"You're lucky I don't have the time to spare."

And he shut the hideous creature in the chest along with his snake and jammed the lock closed with a conclusive clank.

"Well that's a relief," said Harry. He let out a long whistle. "I didn't really have it in me to spend any more time with something so ugly."

"Harry, I think we should talk about this," said Sternley.

"And I have no doubt we will," replied Harry, sounding, and feeling, rather jovial. "But not right now. Because right now I need a shower, fresh clothes and a good sleep. And to achieve that, I have to get the sword back. And to accomplish that, I need to climb a mountain. So that's what I'm going to do now."

"You don't want to—"

"Listen," said Harry, cutting across the hat. "He took my parents, my home, my childhood, my peace of mind and my hand. I ought to have dashed him and his snake into a thousand little pieces at the bottom of a tower but he's helpless. Completely vulnerable. And how would I be any better than he was, when he tried to kill a baby?"

Harry let this hang for a moment.

"I have no doubt he'll be back to plague my life in some other way, but until then, that's all that really needs saying."

"I just wanted to say," said Sternley. "That I'm very proud of you."

Harry wondered how long it would be before he could stop bursting into tears at the merest provocation.

For a long time, they stood together, staring up at the sun. Watched as the smoke and dust cleared, listening to the bird song and the gentle whistle of the breeze through the room. Then Harry's lips turned into the faintest ghost of a smile.

"Time to go home, Sternley," he said.

"Time to go home, Harry," replied the hat, but then as Harry headed toward the exit, "although, y'know. We are standing in the study of one of the greatest enchanters of our generation. And otherwise it's all going to go to waste."

"Sternley," began Harry, glowing with happiness. "I love the way you think."

Together they spent a happy half hour searching the tower room, rifling through what remained of Lucius Malfoy's enchanted possessions. Most of the artefacts they found were useless to them and the majority of the others were too large to carry. But Harry did find three items that they took. The first was a long, delicately enchanted and beautifully engraved staff. This, to all intents and purposes, was a more robust version of Harry's firestick, albeit, with a few extra nifty functions.

The second was a small, scruffy, leather-bound book that they'd found in one of the desk drawers. At first, Harry had presumed it was a diary of some sort. But a quick rifle through the pages had caused his heart to leap into his throat and Sternley to burst out in a whoop of triumph.

It was Lucius Malfoy's personal journal of enchanting. Every tela, bind and charm the man had known was likely written in this book. It was a record of all the discoveries and creations that had brought power and prestige to the Malfoy name.

And now Harry took it as the spoils of war.

But the only item of greater significance that Harry claimed was a small golden key, branded with a decorative 'G' and a number; 252.

"Do you think they'd let me withdraw from it?" asked Harry, staring down at the item in his hand.

"'Whomever holds they key'," quoted Sternley. "This isn't the master key for the vault and whoever possesses it could eventually have this one stricken from the ledger. But until they know that it's missing— It's why most wizards take such precautions with it. I've known headmasters who have kept their vault key in a goblin-enchanted lock box inside another, lesser security vault."

Harry's face flushed. In the short time he'd possessed his own key, he'd done nothing more secure with it than keep it in the bottom of his trunk.

When they were ready to leave, Harry looked back at the conglomeration of artefacts they were leaving behind.

"Shouldn't we worry about these falling into enemy hands?" he asked. "Goblins, or who ever else?"

"Don't you remember what Bagdud and Talongut said in the forest? The goblins are going to blow this tower to pieces the first chance they get."

Harry considered this and nodded. A grin on his face.

"Hear that, Voldemort?" he called toward the chest. "You'd best find a way out of that chest pronto, or you're going to be goblin target practice."

If the Dark Lord had heard him, he gave no indication.

"Bye," shouted Harry, as he began the descent from the tower.

They travelled back towards Valbona, avoiding the roads, but nonetheless finding the woods devoid of goblins. Whether the sentries that he'd killed hadn't been replaced, or if they had been withdrawn, Harry couldn't be sure. What they were almost certain of though, was that the area was indeed empty. Even if they had somehow missed them, any patrols would have spotted them in turn.

Little by little, Harry found his pace slowing. Not from exhaustion, but from trepidation. The further he walked with and found no resistance, the more he was suspicious. It was as though he was walking into a trap, but he couldn't see how it could be.

After an hour of worrying about it, Harry stopped in a dense patch of brush.

"I feel like we're being watched," he whispered to Sternley.

"That's because you are," came an unfamiliar voice from behind.

Harry spun and found himself face to face with the business end of an assault rifle. A tall, broad muggle held it and beside him were two others, similarly equipped, also aiming straight at him. Each of them clad head to toe in military camouflage, all three wearing severe expressions.

"Hands up," said the man. "Come out of the bushes."

Harry lifted one hand and waved his stump in their direction. The man's eyes took it in and then he nodded.

"Is that a weapon?" he asked indicating the staff Harry had tied across his shoulders.

"Of sorts," admitted Harry, thinking he ought to be as truthful as possible. He didn't want to give them any excuse to kill him.

"Keep it on your back then. Keep your hand where I can see it," said the man. Then he peered from Harry to the Sorting Hat and then back to Harry. "Are you the Drangue?"

Harry blinked in surprise.

"I have been called that before," he said, trying to sound as cryptic as he could. He wasn't sure if being known as a Drangue, whatever that was, was a good thing. It had bestowed on him some level of respect from Gjergj, but the broad Albanian had seemed more than a little crazy.

"You must come with us," said the man, gesturing off with the rifle and other two also pointed their weapons away. Something about the man's tone told Harry that he was asking, rather than telling.

"Where and how far?" he asked, trying to impose some level of control back on the conversation.

"Cerem, ten kilometers," said the man and Harry pulled a face. That was a significant loss of time at this stage of proceedings. He was on a tight schedule. "But we have a car on the road, less than a mile away. A car with wheels."

Harry gave the man an odd look, he hadn't presumed that this needed explaining, but nodded his consent anyway. It wasn't like he had a choice, but he wanted to give them the impression that he was weighing up the option.

"Afterwards, will you drive me where I want to go?"

"Yes," agreed the man, with a curt nodding. "Wherever you want to go."

Harry found himself tempted to say that he wanted a lift to the moon.

"Lead on then," he said and the four of them began to move down the hillside, heading towards the road.


	39. Chapter 39

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë  
Chapter Thirty Nine**

Late afternoon crept up on them, taking Harry by surprise. It hadn't seemed all that long ago that they watched the sun come up over Bajram Curi. Now it hung low in the sky and caught the tree canopy at an odd angle, lighting the forest in jagged shards of light and shadow.

The bizarre illumination, in conjunction with the exceptional camouflage of his three escorts meant that more than once he and Sternley had found themselves alone in the forest for a stretch. Then one by one the three of them would re-materialise, often right beside him. It was an unsettling experience and Harry couldn't be sure if they were periodically leaving him or if his eyes were playing tricks on him.

To their credit, they realised they were spooking him, because Edi their leader began sticking to Harry like reassuring glue. Unfortunately, this came with persistent attempts to engage Harry in conversation.

"What happened to your hand?" he asked, after they'd been walking for fifteen minutes. Harry glanced at him and Edi flashed him a reassuring smile. "Your wound looks fresh."

"It got cut off," replied Harry, not sure what he could say before breaking the statute of secrecy.

That said, there wasn't much of a statute to uphold any more.

"An accident?" asked Edi, frowning. "Or one of the little people?"

Harry presumed he was referring to the goblins and shook his head on both counts.

"A man," he replied and caught the surprised expression on Edi's face and corrected himself. "A sorcerer. An evil one."

Edi flinched and then made the sign of the cross, Harry smiled to himself, it was essentially the same reaction any British wizard had to the word Voldemort.

"Devils," said Edi and spat on the ground.

Harry didn't bother to argue, he hadn't yet forgotten what it felt like to have the barrel of that rifle shoved in his face.

A few minutes later, the four of them reached the road which they followed north west for while before coming to a tight packed copse of trees. Hidden amongst them was the car, which turned out to be an off-road vehicle that Harry suspected, from the markings, was military. Edi opened the passenger side door for him, he clambered in.

He reached up for the seatbelt; an automatic motion born of years of living with Petunia's lectures on road safety. But he cringed with pain as his stump, still raw and painful, collided with the clasp.

His hand was gone, he reminded himself and reached across with the other.

To their credit, his companions made no comment and after a moment or two they were whizzing along the narrow, winding track that climbed the valley slope.

"You're not worried about the little people hearing us?" Harry asked. The howl of the engine was deafening.

"How many of them did you see in the forest?" asked Edi, from the driver's seat and his two companions laughed. "We killed them all between the base and Bajram as we looked for you. At least, the ones you hadn't killed already."

"You were looking for me?" asked Harry, blinking across the car at him.

They all gave him eager smiles and nods.

"The General sent us to find you," replied Edi, as though this explained everything.

Harry opened his mouth to ask who 'The General' might be, but before he could utter any syllables, the car crested the lip of the valley and Harry's words dried up.

The three men began to laugh at the expression on his face.

"Cerem," proclaimed Edi, gesturing.

The ridge they were now driving along was a narrow divide between one river basin and the next. At the base of the valley slope was a veritable city of temporary housing. Every inch of the wide valley floor had been blanketed with tents, caravans, bivouacs, lean-to's, draped blankets, cars and whatever other accommodation the people inhabiting the ramshackle town could find to hand.

Harry looked to Edi, completely agog.

"Where did they all come from?"

"They are all the refugees of the war."

Harry felt his stomach churn. All these people's homes had been lost to goblin attacks? Guilt flushed through him; he'd been the one who started this war and the people of Albania had taken the consequences. Edi mistook his expression for sympathy and reached across the car to pat him on the shoulder.

"It is good," he assured Harry. "It means they are not dead."

This made Harry feel a little better.

They stopped at a checkpoint. Here six more soldiers, men and women, dressed in similar camouflage welcomed the returning men with laughter and heartfelt greetings. Between them they examined the truck and Harry with polite curiosity before sending them on their way. As they crawled through the camp, Harry gazed out of the window, watching in astonishment as the refugees continued on their lives with more than their fair share of frivolity and enthusiasm.

Children chased the car as it passed, laughing and banging on the panels until Edi saw them off with a few choice words. Here and there small groups of young women and men sat chatting while scrubbing clothes on washboards and hanging them up to dry. Elsewhere packs of armed guards stood beside fires housed by barrels, smoking and talking.

Harry watched, spellbound by the tableau of everyday life unfolding around him.

"They're happy?" he asked Edi.

The man smiled.

"They're content," he corrected, and at Harry's frown, he continued. "They have their friends and family here to support them. Why wouldn't they be?"

Edi pulled up outside one of the very few structures that looked as though it predated the conflict; a two story, shingle clad barn. Here he killed the ignition and the four of them clambered out of the vehicle. Harry'd only just put both feet on the ground before he found himself struck by a small, black-haired tornado.

"You're alive!" cried Anna, holding him in a tight hug, which Harry returned, albeit in awkward fashion with his one hand. "I knew you wouldn't die."

"Well, thanks," said Harry, rather taken aback. "I guess."

She released him and Harry took that as an excuse to relax his grip, an instant later she planted a kiss on him. One which lingered uncomfortably.

When she pulled away, she laughed at his horror-struck expression and bright red face.

"Whenever a warrior returns in the old tales, he is greeted by a kiss," she explained.

"We must have read different stories, Anna," said Gjergj, appearing behind her. "I don't remember much kissing."

It was Anna's turn to go bright red. She looked from her uncle to Harry and then disappeared with an exasperated sigh that sounded suspiciously like "boys".

"It's good to see you, Drangue!" roared Gjergj. "Come, you look hungry, we must feed you. You are tired, you must sleep. You smell dirty, you must wash."

They all laughed this time; Gjergj, Edi and the others. Harry chimed in weakly at the end, but Gjergj didn't seem to notice. The thick man seized Harry's shoulder in one of his enormous hands and lead him inside the barn. He dismissed Edi and his friends to guard duty with a wave of his hand.

But the moment they crossed the threshold, Gjergj's expression turned serious. He pulled Harry to one side and crouched to his level to stare into into his eyes.

"If you were any normal person," he said in low, worried tones. "I would ask how you are still standing."

Harry frowned in confusion. His bewilderment must have shown in his face, for Gjergj pulled him further into the barn, where a floor length mirror hung at a haphazard angle against the wall. Standing before it, Harry understood what Gjergj meant.

He looked like a corpse bewitched to walk among the living. Where his skin was visible it was deathly pale, which was unsurprising as most of his blood did seem to have soaked into his shirt. His stump was a myriad of ugly colours; red and purple and black where Malfoy's curse had burned his flesh. His lack of real sleep had left deep, dark semi-circles beneath his eyes, where they contrasted with his white face like coals in snow.

The wound on one side of his neck looked yellow and infected, while the rest of it was mottled and bruised. The wound in his shouler was still visible beneath his shirt and the thick layer of dirt and blood that seemed to coat every other inch of him.

Harry looked back to Gjergj.

"I suppose I've been in a few scrapes," he said, half whispering from shock.

"When was the last time you ate? Drank? Slept?"

Harry thought, he thought maybe he'd last eaten at Vocerr's but he couldn't remember for certain.

"I'm not sure," he admitted.

Gjergj pulled a face.

"Come," he said, beckoning him on. "We will feed you and while you eat, we shall talk. Then you will have a shower, medical attention, fresh clothes and a bed."

Harry nodded his agreement with this plan and allowed Gjergj to seat him at a small table and ply him with a bowl of stew and a hunk of bread the size of Harry's head. The food was hot and delicious, but Harry struggled with his one remaining hand. He had to keep juggling his bread and spoon, something that soon grew immensely tiresome.

"So, you're The General?" asked Harry around a mouthful of bread, when he'd slowed down in his rapid consumption of the food before him.

"Yes," replied Gjergj with a grin. "One of my fore-bearers is a famous leader. One of the greatest men in Albanian history. He knew of the little people and he passed the knowledge on to his son and he his son and so on, all through the generations. When I was little, my father taught me the teachings.

"When they attacked, I was ready. I had been preparing all my life to defend Albania against her enemies. I saved people and they came to me, ready to fight. We began to prepare for war."

Harry nodded to demonstrate his understanding.

"All the same, you've reacted quickly," said Harry. "All of you. You've had perhaps three days warning."

"We are Albanians," said Gjergj, as though this explained everything. Perhaps it did. "Tell me this; are you a Drangue?"

Harry stared at him for a time.

"I don't know what one is," he admitted.

"I thought as much. Legends speak of warriors of ancient time who fought alongside the Zana. They were mythically powerful, strong enough to throw boulders and they had wings they used to fly."

"Well I can't do any of those things, but I am an agent of Vocerr."

"And your hat talks?"

"And my hat talks."

"I certainly do," announced Sternley, his familiar voice comforting to Harry's weary mind.

"What are you then?" asked Gjergj, his eyes bright and curious.

Harry shrugged.

"A boy."

From his expression, Harry surmised that this was not what Gjergj was expecting to hear.

"Just a boy?" he asked, astounded.

"That's what I said," replied Harry, his tone sharp.

The man peered at him. Harry thought he might be trying to spot any lies he'd been told. But lying would have used energy Harry didn't possess. Eventually Gjergj smiled.

"Perhaps you are the child of Drangues and don't yet know it."

Harry returned the smile. It was possible after all. He'd never really known his parents.

"What is your name then?" asked Gjergj.

"Harry."

"And what will you do once you have rested, Harry? Will you stay and help us fight our war?"

"I wish I could, Gjergj," replied Harry. "But it's my mission to end it."

"End the war? That is a big mission, Harry. Why you?"

Harry considered him for a long time, then looked at the empty bowl in front of him.

"Because I started it."

The silence was deafening. Harry had no idea how Gjergj might react to this announcement, but found that he couldn't force himself to look up and meet the man's eyes.

"Truly?"

"Truly," said Harry. "I didn't mean to, but I did. I am sorry, Gjergj. I have cost you and your people so much. I swear I am going to do anything in my power to fix it."

"I believe you."

Harry looked up and caught Gjergj's eyes. They weren't, as he expected, full of rage or disbelief, but a quiet, infectious strength. Harry felt the knot of dread in his stomach loosen and dissipate.

"Do you have a plan?"

"We do," replied Sternley, taking over the talking while Harry regained his ability to speak. "And actually, if we pooled our plans and resources, we can certainly improve it."

Gjergj nodded, his eyes serious.

"Let's talk of war then, hat," he said and the three of them started to plan the defence of Albania.


	40. Chapter 40

**A/N - People keep telling me that these 'serial' chapters are too short. Other people tell me they're just right. I was considering, once the story is finished, going back and perhaps compiling them into longer chunks comprised of multiple scenes. Similarly, I was considering writing any potential future Valbonë sequels in longer, but more infrequent chapters. Any opinions?**

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë**  
**Chapter Forty**

When Harry awoke the following morning, he suspected that he may well have died and gone to heaven.

The night before he'd been so exhausted, in both mind and body, that twice he'd found himself asleep. Which somewhat interrupted the conversation he was having with Gjergj and Sternley. The third time his face hit the table, Gjergj drew a line under proceedings and demanded Harry wash himself and rest, but only after being treated by his medical staff.

Harry, in the last two years at Hogwarts, had been subjected to more than his fair share of visits to the hospital wing. But prior to that, while living with the Dursleys, there'd been so few doctor's appointments that most of the muggle medical equipment was foreign and overwhelming.

Particularly in light of Madame Pomfrey's far more 'hands-off' approach.

But the Gjergj's doctors were kind and patient with him. Though it annoyed him that they treated him like a child, he soon grew to appreciate their delicate touch and dexterous fingers. Especially when they began to work on his stump.

Even the slightest of touches sent waves of pain up through Harry's arm. This made it difficult for the staff to make any significant progress. So the third time he flinched away, he found himself seized by strong hands and a needle being poked into his arm.

Things became hazy in Harry's memory after that.

But now, all of those memories seemed like nothing more than a bad dream. In fact, Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd been quite this content.

His skin was clean; weeks of dirt from Valbonë washed away. There was no ache from his stump, throat or any of his other wounds. He was warm and comfortable, swaddled in furs and thick cotton sheets and laying upon a thick, comfy mattress. Above him were not trees and clouds, but thick, tent-fabric, on which the lightest amount of rain pattered.

Harry had never felt so grateful for material stretched between two posts.

He was so pleased with these realisations, so warm and cosy and relaxed that he allowed himself the luxury of just laying there for a long time. Just happy to be comfortable, secure and alone with his thoughts.

It struck him that a month ago he wouldn't have considered a lie-in decadent. But he also realised that Valbonë and Bajram-Curi, not to mention the people of Cerem had changed his outlook on life. If not his fundamental character.

After a long time of just laying there, he heard Sternley speak from the chest beside him.

"Are you awake?"

"I am."

"Are you okay? You were pretty out of it last night."

"I'm fine, Sternley. I was just thinking—"

Harry began to laugh. First just the slightest giggle and then all at once it became a deafening roar of laughter; hard enough that he felt like he might just burst at the seams.

"What's so funny?" asked Sternley, worry evident in his tone.

Harry knew that the hat was concerned that he'd gone off his rocker. Maybe he had; but the thought was just too amusing.

"Well, I was just thinking," he managed, when he regained his breath. "That a month ago I was dreading going back to the Dursley's. Now look at me."

Sternley gave a little chuckle, though Harry suspected that the hat was humouring him.

Harry sat up in bed, beginning the long process of extricating himself from the mounds of blankets he'd been covered with and looked around. The tent was larger than any Harry had ever seen, though his experience was lacking. It was large, square and tall enough for him to stand in. Indeed it probably would've given a grown man room enough to do the same; although perhaps Hagrid wouldn't agree.

Then again, Hagrid found most reasonable houses severely lacking in headroom.

On a chair, in the corner, were a set of green, military fatigues. Once he extricated himself from the swaddling, he found himself wishing he hadn't. As well as the embarrassment of finding himself stark naked before Sternley, he also realised that the tent was far, far colder than he'd expected.

To his unerring credit, Sternley chose that precise moment to look away and begin whistling a jaunty tune.

He hurried to don the uniform, glad and grateful to Gjergj that they were a perfect fit. And that his friend had been thoughtful enough to leave him a thick, fur coat and a woollen balaclava he could wear under Sternley.

And that the underpants he'd been left appeared to be brand new.

Though he struggled dressing with only one hand, not too long later, Harry emerged from the tent fully dressed and with the Hogwarts Sorting Hat perched at a jaunty angle upon his head.

He noticed at once, and with another small stab of gratitude, that his tent was among those closest to the barn and a little away from anyone else. He hoped that this wasn't an inconvenience for the others, but was also glad that he hadn't been required to suffer stares and questions from the Albanians.

For though they'd all been very kind and hospitable the night before, they'd also possessed a great deal of curiosity with regards to Harry. Despite having been stared at for the last two years by everyone in the wizarding world, somehow this was a different experience.

When he reached the barn, Gjergj came out to greet him. Harry presumed the man had been awaiting his arrival. He smiled at Harry's well rested face, clapped him on the shoulder with one of his enormous hands.

"Morning, Harry," he said, his voice hearty and jovial. "Would you like breakfast?"

Harry declined in polite fashion. He still felt rather full after the soup last night. He presumed his body adjusted, over the last few weeks, to eating very little.

"In that case, will you come for a drive with me? I will show you all of Cerem and I can show you that the preparations have already begun."

He steered Harry toward the jeep and they both clambered in. Gjergj pulled his door closed with a loud clunk and it took Harry a moment of struggling at the handle with his elbow before giving up and reaching across with his good hand.

"The preparations for what?" he asked, once he'd gotten it closed, blinking over at the Albanian.

"The preparations to enact our plan, of course."

Gjergj started the engine and they purred away from the little barn, picking their way through the small streets and thoroughfares. They were almost out of Cerem and up onto the valley slope before Harry noticed that the city was quieter than it'd been the night before. The children were still there and people continued to do chores, here and there, but they all seemed to be young teenagers or grandparents.

Harry turned to ask Gjergj about it, but before he could, the car rounded a bulge in the hillside and his mouth fell open.

Here the valley that housed Cerem joined the next, which was even wider and flatter at the bottom. Grouped in the basin of the valley were approximately three hundred men and women dressed in the same drab, green fatigues that he was. With another hundred lined up in the process of being outfitted by a large, olive tent.

"You haven't wasted any time," said Sternley, an element of awe in his voice.

"We have you two to thank for that."

Harry and Sternley looked at Gjergj, confusion written on both of their faces.

"They're all talking about the drangue with the magical hat that arrived last night. Combine that with the solid tactical information you've been able to give us on the little people, Sternley, and it's been difficult to stop people joining up."

Harry tried to shut his mouth, but found he was unable. He hadn't expected Gjergj and the Albanians to act quite so swiftly; there was still so much more work to do in order to get Cerem habitable. He pointed out as much to Gjergj, who nodded solemnly.

"I agree, but they are all very eager to go home and see winning the war as their best chance. Telling them otherwise would cause dissent, so the other officers and I have decided to train them and then allocate them to improving the city. Besides, it can't hurt to have more soldiers in reserve."

Neither Harry or Sternley could fault that logic.

Gjergj said he wanted to show them the front line established against the probable direction of the Goblin attack. As well as the series of signalling posts erected on high ground which, according to the Albanian, warn them of incoming attacks. So they followed the road up the steep valley sides until they reached the ridgeline.

Here they pulled over to the side of the trail, climbed out and proceeded on foot. While they walked the length of the ridge, Gjergj took great pains to explain their tactics to Harry and Sternley. While impressed, strategy just wasn't something Harry claimed any real knowledge of. Not to mention it was a long, boring conversation that consumed much of the morning.

He suspected somewhat that Gjergj's points were aimed at Sternley, rather than himself. The hat seemed to have a much more enthusiastic understanding of these things.

"We have spotters with binoculars and marksmen with scoped rifles in those positions," he said, indicating areas of high ground along the length of the valley.

"What sort of range do they have?" asked Sternley.

"Their effective range is eight hundred meters," replied Gjergj at once. "They have good sightlines both up and down the valley and have constructed hides that render them almost invisible from the ground. Effectively they could lock down the valley."

"You need to be careful not to rely on them though," said Sternley. "They will have some magic and it won't take long for them to either spot your marksmen or cast spells against their bullets."

"I considered this last night when you mentioned it," said Gjergj with a grin. "Me and two others spent the morning planting landmines."

Sternley have a low, impressed whistle.

"Are your preparations this good in every direction?"

"This is the hardest terrain to cross by foot and so is the least defended position."

"If landmines and snipers are your idea of a weak defence," interjected Harry, returning to the conversation. "I'd hate to see what you've got defending the other approaches. Dragons, perhaps?"

Harry and Sternley couldn't help but laugh at how wide Gjergj 's eyes became at the thought of how he might utilize dragons in the defence of Cerem.

"So what are your plans now, Harry?" asked the General as they headed back to the jeep.

Harry shielded his gaze, turned and pointed out the mountain peak to the west.

"I'm going to have to climb up there," he told Gjergj .

The man looked up at it, and then cracked a smile.

"Climb?" he asked, and brought him to stand on the opposite side of the ridge, looking down into the adjacent valley. "I think not. You shall fly."

Harry gasped; for nestled inside a cleft in the steep valley side was a helicopter.


	41. Chapter 41

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë**  
**Chapter Forty One**

Harry had only ever seen helicopters in the distance or on television. The sound he heard now, from inside the belly of the enormous metal beast, was more akin to the roar of a tornado than the slow steady whoosh that he'd expected.

They'd set off in the late afternoon, after Gjergj managed to persuade Harry to a dinner of steak and beer that left him rather tipsy. The helicopter pilot was a little surprised when Gjergj asked him to fly them to the top of a 'deserted' mountain, but agreed nonetheless.

The first few minutes of flight saw them slink low along the valley bottom.

"To avoid goblin lookouts," explained Gjergj.

The helicopter was fast, another surprise to Harry; he'd only ever seen them from the ground. He'd mistaken their lethargic progress through the sky was because they were slow, rather than a matter of relativity. So it was something of an unexpected thrill to suddenly find himself skimming the treetops of Valbonë at a white-knuckle rate of knots.

Though he couldn't help but think that the experience didn't match up in the slightest to his Nimbus 2000, or even come close to the Anglia.

But that didn't stop him from grinning in exhilaration when the helicopter pilot, faced with vertical cliffs, pulled the bird up in a sharp incline. He managed to make an almost impossible ascent look only marginally harder than breathing.

Anna, sitting in the seat beside him, gripped his hand tightly, her eyelids pressed shut in fear. Despite having demanded to come on the flight, she clearly didn't have the same passion for air travel as Harry.

He shared a grin with Gjergj and glanced out of the window to his left.

Below him the greens of Valbonë became blue behind the mist and drizzle that rolled in overnight. The General warned him of the storm that was due to blow in that night and Harry remembered the first he'd suffered in Valbonë with a rueful grin.

They reached the top of the mountain in a fraction of the time it'd taken Harry to climb it the first time. He couldn't help but wish that Grjegj and his helicopter had been there then. Although he didn't know what Ksheta would have made of it.

Snow from the peak whipped around them, flung by the helicopter blades like a storm. A fine mist rose up in a spiral, obscuring their view from the windows. The touchdown was far bumpier than the take off and Harry's feet sank several inches into the snow when he jumped out. Anna and Gjergj surprised him by both following him out of the helicopter. The General took him by both shoulders and knelt before him.

He shouted over the sound of the engine.

"No matter what you think; you didn't start this war, Harry," he roared. "And no matter the circumstances, you have friends and a home in Albania."

Harry's throat tightened and his eyes welled with tears, unexpected emotion rising in his chest.

"Thank you, Gjergj," he shouted and embraced him. "I promise you I'll find a way to end the fighting."

They both grinned at each other and then Gjergj patted him on the shoulder. The moment he backed away, Anna had thrown her arms around him and pressed her lips into the side of his head. Harry held her close with his one good arm.

"Thank you for saving me," she shouted. "Even if you are mad."

Harry laughed and broke the embrace.

"Goodbye, Anna. Goodbye, Gjergj."

"Goodbye, Harry," they both shouted. "Goodbye, Sternley."

"Goodbye," cried the hat.

Then they both clambered back into the helicopter, which slowly began to rise from the ground. Harry found himself forced to shield his eyes as the rotor whirled faster and faster, then it pulled away and shot up into the sky.

Harry watched and waved until it was nothing more than a spec of dust against the broad, blue horizon. Then he tugged his coat tightly around him, turned around and headed in the direction of Vocerr's hut.

He found the going much easier than before, now that he wasn't in the middle of a snowstorm. He spotted the house almost at once and cut a straight line through the snow towards it. He realised, seeing it clearly for the first time, that Vocerr's home was extremely dilapidated. Half of the roof simply no longer existed and a considerable amount of the stones that made up the walls were cracked and frozen by the weather.

"You know," began Harry, staring at it, his light tone contrasting with the surprising amount of anger he felt. "I feel a little betrayed by our friendly neighbourhood Zana, don't you Sternley?"

"Just slightly," replied the hat, his voice similar to Harry's. "I think it's time we paid our host his dues, don't you?"

"Couldn't agree more," replied Harry. "He fought as an eagle before; how powerful do you reckon he is in human form?"

"I guess it's time to find out."

There was flickering fire light spilling out of the windows and that was enough for Harry. He was fed up with the snow. He pushed the door open to find Vocerr waiting for him, his shaggy face stretched in a bizarre, demented smile that immediately put Harry on his guard.

"You came back!" he shouted, sounding triumphant. "I thought you might. Come, come, sit by the fire."

Harry frowned, but did as he was instructed, pausing only to brush snow from his clothes.

"What do you mean, thought?" he asked, shaking snow onto the ground.

"Well, you know," explained Vocerr, sitting opposite. "There was always the chance that you'd, y'know—"

"No," replied Harry coldly. "I don't know."

The Zana grinned uncomfortably and then drew his finger across his throat and made a squelching noise. Then he laughed awkwardly.

"But," he continued, not giving Harry enough time to interject. "You're fine aren't you. You managed it, you're here and warm and unscathed. Fantastic."

"Not completely unscathed," said Harry, illustrating this by lifting his stump.

Vocerr's high spirits dropped momentarily, but then returned a split second later in full force.

"Ahhh, no worries," he replied. "It's only a hand."

Harry's mouth opened in surprise, then snapped shut and became gritted teeth of anger.

"Only a hand?" he snarled. "What do you mean, 'only a hand'? It's not only a hand, it's MY hand."

"Yes, yes," muttered Vocerr, rather distractedly. "I'm sure you'll find another."

"Find another?!" roared Harry, standing at once and sending snow showering all around him. "It's a hand. Where do you expect me to find another?"

"I don't know," snapped Vocerr, also looking angry now. "Perhaps you should go and find your old one. You were the one stupid enough to lose it in the first place."

"I'm not a doll. I don't come with reattatchable parts or kungfu action. I only get two hands to last me an entire lifetime and I've lost one of them on your behalf."

This seemed to dent Vocerr's anger. He looked surprised, and a little shocked, if anything.

"Not to mention you completely lied to me," replied Harry, scowling. "A snake, you said. Faced it before, you said."

"Both of those things were true," countered Vocerr.

"Yes but they were vague. Because you knew if you'd said that Voldemort was there, that there was no way you were going to get me to deal with him."

"Well, it worked, didn't it?"

Harry snorted. But Vocerr raised his hands placatingly, shook his head and gestured.

"Look though, a promise is a promise, I have reforged your sword."

Harry looked at where he was pointing. Gryffindor's sword rested there, every bit as beautiful as the first day he'd seen it. There was absolutely no indication of any breaks in the surface of the blade. This calmed Harry's anger somewhat, although Vocerr's flippance in the face of Harry's tribulations was very frustrating.

He picked it up and tested the weight of it. It was a hundred times more perfectly balanced than the sword that Vocerr had lent him. The blade felt every inch a part of him, he wasn't sure if he'd just gotten more practiced with Vocerr's or if some intrinsic quality of the weapon had changed.

"I have a confession to make," said Harry, looking up and catching Vocerr's eye.

The man gave a wry look, as though to imply he already knew what Harry was going to say.

"You lost my sword, I know," he said. "Not to worry, it's only steel. Not worth losing a hand over."

Harry saw red. Before he was even aware what he was doing, he'd thrown himself across the fire, kicking Vocerr in the chest. The blow knocked him to the ground and Harry's foot pinned him there, Gryffindor's blade tickling the man's face.

"Calm down," said the Zana, his voice and expression now entirely serious. "You're making a big mistake."

"No," replied Harry, the red mist clearing, only to be replaced with an absolute conviction. "No. You've made a big mistake. You stole my friend, to bring me here. You broke my sword, to bend me to your will. You tricked, and manipulated me every inch of the way. Then you attempt to mock me?

"You made the mistake, Zana. Nobody plays Harry Potter, not anymore."

His piece said, the sword of Gryffindor flicked out and neatly cut Vocerr's hand off at the wrist. The Zana roared in pain and anger, but Harry stamped firmly on his chest, forcing all of the air out of his chest and silencing him.

"So now we're quits. You've played me, I've played you. You cost me a hand, I've taken yours. But let me warn you Vocerr, and I'll say this only once; play me again and it won't be a hand I'll take. I'll blow your whole damn mountain up."

He removed his foot from where it pinned the Zana to the ground and Vocerr rolled into a ball, clutching the bleeding stump to his chest and sobbing. Harry turned his back on the pitiful sight and walked to the door.

At the last moment, he stopped and looked back at the man behind him.

"By the way, Vocerr," he said. "I wasn't going to confess that I lost your sword. I was going to confess that I didn't kill Voldemort. He's still alive."

The howling intensified as Harry walked out of the hut, slamming the door behind him.

"You think he got the message?" asked Harry.

"I think he got the message," agreed Sternley. "Do you think you did the right thing?"

"I doubt it. But say what you like, vengeance is sweet."

With those words, Harry became suddenly conscious of just how much he'd changed since arriving in Albania. He'd crash landed in Valbonë timid, broken and afraid. Now he'd emerged strong and hard. He glanced down at the sword of Gryffindor in his hand and knew that he'd been every bit as reforged as the blade itself.

If only he looked as good for his troubles as the sword did.

He met Ksheta by the edge of the peak, as he had before. Her gorgeous features and flowing red hair along with the kiss and embrace she threw upon him, were enough to render him back into a small boy. His face blushed scarlet as she laughed and pinched his cheeks.

"My friend," she exclaimed. "I knew you would come back. You rode the twirly-bird here? You must tell me of your adventures since I saw you last."

Harry grinned.

"Maybe another time, Ksheta, I've got a war to fight" he said and glanced up at the sky. "And I'd say I'm already two minutes behind schedule."

With that said, Harry slung the sword of Gryffindor across his back, stepped out onto the mountainside and lifted his stump in the air. There was an earsplitting cry and then something large and white and feathery dropped out of the sky and onto his arm.

"Hello, Hedwig," said Harry softly, as the owl crooned. "Long time no see. Got any letters for me?"

Hedwig barked and passed them over. Three envelopes made of stiff white parchment. Harry opened the first, read it and gave a gratified grunt. Then he scanned the second, which produced another pleased noise. The third was perused in turn and left Harry with an enormous, self-satisfied smile on his face.

"They've all agreed?" asked Sternley.

"For the most part," replied Harry. "They've some stipulations, which you expected. But nothing that I'm not completely willing to agree to. Are you ready?"

"I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat," replied Sternley. "I was stitched ready."

Harry laughed and removed the hat from his head, he held the hat out to Ksheta.

"Here, hold him a moment, would you? Upside down, that's the ticket."

Then he tossed in the sword of Gryffindor, which vanished without a trace, followed by his enormous firestick and any other possessions he didn't want to risk losing. Finally, he withdrew his wand and held it in his hand.

"Wingardium Leviosa," he said, taking the hat from Ksheta's hands and gently lowering it onto Hedwig's head. "Goodbye you two, I'll see you on the other side."

The owl gave an undignified bark and then snatched the wand from Harry's hand before taking to the sky, bearing Sternley and all Harry's possessions away. Ksheta looked on, an expression of puzzlement on her face, Harry grinned at her, but was unable to hide the sadness in his eyes.

"Some men are going to come soon," he said. "Wizards, like me, but they won't be very friendly. You should make yourself scarce."

"They won't see me," replied Ksheta and took his remaining hand between her soft fingers. "But I will stay with you until they come."

Harry's heart went out to her in gratitude and together they sat on the mountainside, hand in hand. Ksheta leaned her head on Harry's shoulder and they watched the sun slip below the horizon in a blaze of reds and yellows and pinks.

Below them, the forests of Valbonë trembled in the breeze, stretching out as far as Harry's eyes could see in every direction. The green treetops, glistening rivers and quiet, shaded clearings defying the idea that there was a war being fought amongst them at this very moment.

A series of cracks heralded the arrival of the Albanian Aurors. Harry felt Ksheta's hand slip from his, felt her lips graze his cheek and heard the most gentle of whispers in his ear.

"Goodbye, Harry Potter," she whispered.

And then she was gone.

"Hello, Harry Potter," said an unfamiliar voice from behind him. "Throw any weapons you possess to the ground, raise your arms, stand up and turn around, slowly."

"I'm not armed," replied Harry, but otherwise complied with the orders. "I'm coming in quietly."

He thought he might recognise the auror who had spoken as one of those involved in the chase across Albania, but couldn't be sure. There were at least a dozen at his back, all of them had their wands drawn and looked a little worried to be standing there.

"You're coming with us," said the auror.

"Well, yes," replied Harry. "That's sort of the idea of giving myself up, isn't it?"


	42. Chapter 42

**A/N - Sorry for the lack of an update yesterday, there was a moment of panic when I managed to delete all of the files from my Dropbox. I've managed to recover most of them. Normal schedule will resume. **

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë**  
**Chapter Forty Two**

Harry awoke with a groan, sat up in the uncomfortable chair and lifted his hand to rub drool from the corner of his mouth. Or at least, he tried to. For his arm made it half the distance before it stopped short, trapped by thick chains.

He blinked down at them and began to recall.

The last thing he remembered were the irons being clapped around his wrist. Before that, he'd suffered the feeling of being forced through a tight, rubber tube. Before that he'd been standing on the mountain top surrounded by a dozen Albanian aurors.

He couldn't remember going to sleep, so he'd been cursed or bewitched.

Harry looked around in interest; he'd been manacled to a simple wooden table. Four, square legs rose to a stark, dark top. There wasn't any form of decoration on the piece of furniture and that applied to the rest of the room, which was entirely utilitarian.

The walls were coated in peeling, white plaster; the floor was concrete, except beneath Harry's chair, where there was an iron grate. A single sheet of iron comprised the door, at least from what of it he could see, and possessed not so much as a keyhole. The only source of light in the room was from a single light bulb, which hung, bare, from the roof.

Except that on closer inspection, Harry realised that it wasn't a light bulb at all. Instead, a tiny fairy glowed in a small glass ball, fluttering its minute wings and bumping in vain against its prison. It reminded Harry of a moth, and wished there was something he could do to free the terrified creature.

But there wasn't. Because he was sitting in an uncomfortable chair and had been chained to an ugly table.

"So this is what the inside of an Albanian interrogation room looks like," he remarked to himself.

Except that abruptly, he was no longer talking to himself. For after the rumble of a bar being drawn back, the door opened and a thin man, of medium height entered the room. He adorned himself in what Harry recognised as military garb, though a less muggle looking outfit he couldn't have imagined.

The man's navy robes hung to his ankles, trimmed at the base by black fur. Around his waist was a yellow belt, weighted down at one side with a sabre. His lapels formed a long, wide 'v', exposing more uniform beneath, each bore an insignia, as did his peaked cap, which he removed as he entered.

Tasselled, yellow epaulettes sat on each of his shoulders, thick cords hanging from them and looping back to his chest. On his left side, over his heart, were dozens of tiny ribbons. Each of these, Harry supposed, represented a medal.

The man's whole appearance, from the top of his neatly parted hair, to the tip of his incredibly shiny black books was designed to impress.

Harry leaned back in his chair and yawned.

"I'm sorry if you're bored, Mr. Potter," said the man, removing his wand from his pocket with a stiff air of formality. "But I assure you, things are about to get far more lively."

"No," replied Harry, still acting distracted. "I don't want to talk to you, go away."

"Excuse me?" asked the man, peaking a neatly trimmed eyebrow.

"I distinctly remember, during my arrest," began Harry, looking at the nails of his remaining hand. "Asking to speak to Mr. Chernenko. You are not him."

The interrogator peered at Harry, as though examining muck on his shoe, then began to peel one of his leather gloves from his hand.

"Mr. Chernenko does not concern himself with—" he began, but Harry spoke sharply across him.

"—does not concern himself with the biggest thing that's happened in his country for a hundred years? I doubt that very much."

The man froze, glove half off his hand and his pale skin flushed red. Harry doubted this was the way he'd intended this conversation to go; mocked by a twelve year old boy. He had clearly thought himself intimidating, indeed he was intimidating and Harry was having a hard time playing his nonchalant act.

But it was vital that Harry speak with the Chairperson himself.

"So go away," said Harry. "I want to speak to the organ grinder, not the monkey."

The man had crossed the room in two seconds flat, hand raised to strike Harry, but he stopped at the last moment as a voice spoke out from the doorway.

"Don't be an idiot, Valmir."

Harry looked past his interrogator to see a tall, broad man with long, blonde hair standing in the entrance. He couldn't believe there had ever been a starker contrast between two people, than between this new man and Valmir.

Chernenko's white robes looked rather comfortable, lined as they were with thick fur. His face was fleshy and full, though not in the slightest fat and possessed twice the normal amount of jaw. His eyes were a vivid green, almost the mirror image of Harry's, and they burned with a fierce intensity only rivalled by those of Albus Dumbledore.

"If you'd allow me, Valmir?" he asked, and though his voice was quiet, it filled the room, somehow managing to be both a request and a command.

Valmir didn't hesitate; instead he offered the Chairperson a sharp, jerky bow and all but fled the room.

Chernenko closed the door behind him and gave Harry a small smile. He produced his wand from his pocket and with a single flick, released Harry from his chains and created a plump, comfy armchair from thin air. Here he sat and smiled across the table.

Harry wondered if the man was emulating Albus Dumbledore as a deliberate ploy to establish rapport between them. He thought he probably was, but at least he was being polite in his attempts to win Harry over.

"How are you feeling, Harry?" he asked.

"Like a boy who has spent four weeks in a forest and had his hand cut off, Chairperson."

Chernenko nodded.

"Call me Faderni, Harry," he said. "And I did notice that. Would you care to tell me how exactly you lost your hand?"

"Actually," said Harry. "That was my plan."

"Oh?" asked the Chairperson.

"Yes," replied Harry. "In fact, I'm happy to tell you anything you want to know. I'll even take truth serum if you like."

At this, Chernenko leaned back in his chair and frowned. Like Valmir before him he'd not been expecting this laissez-faire attitude. But his next question surprised Harry.

"Are you really Harry Potter?" he asked. "You're not an imposter pretending?"

"Why would anyone do that?"

"To aid his escape from Albania."

Harry shrugged.

"I don't know what to say, Chairperson," he said. "I am Harry Potter. How can I prove it to you?"

"No need," said Faderni. "I believe you. You are just not at all what I had imagined. You are nothing like a twelve year old boy."

"I'm almost thirteen, if that changes anything," replied Harry, with a grin.

"And you have spent nearly a month in Valbonë," admitted the Chairperson. "At least as far as we can tell. Did you go straight there from England?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I didn't mean to go to Valbonë. I didn't even know what it was until I got there."

This surprised Chernenko, who leaned back and examined him carefully.

"You didn't intend to start the war?"

"Of course not. I was raised by muggles, I had no idea that Valbonë was off limits and guarded by goblins until I was right in the middle of it."

"I think you ought to explain everything and tell me your story."

"I will, if you will grant me one favour."

"And what would that be?"

"Albus Dumbledore is in Albania, probably in this very building. I won't say a word until he's in this room."

Chernenko stared at Harry and his eyes narrowed. Harry could see the man's brain working like lightning as he attempted to evaluate every angle and calculate the possibilities.

"How do I know this isn't an attempt to escape?" he asked. "Dumbledore could easily overpower me and free you. Probably even fight his way past every auror in the building if he had a mind to it."

"Why would I hand myself in, only to escape?" asked Harry, but he could tell Chernenko remained unconvinced; sure there was an angle that he couldn't see. "What if I told you why I want Dumbledore?"

Chernenko continued to survey him, but gave an abrupt nod of his head.

"If we can work together, Chairperson Chernenko, we will both get what we want," began Harry. "I didn't mean to start this war. And the thing I want more than anything is to end it. I have, with some friends, come up with a plan that will win it, or at least give us a good shot at it. Dumbledore is an important piece of this scheme, but he needs to hear this story as soon as possible.

"You have two choices, Chairperson. You can hand me over to the goblins, hope that appeases them and forever be seen as the politician who handed a twelve year old boy over to die. Or you can work with me and be the politician that destroyed the Brotherhood of Goblins."

Chernenko stared at him for a long time, then stood, walked to the door and called out.

"Valmir, bring Albus Dumbledore down to us."

Harry took a deep breath and released it at length. It was much, much harder than he'd expected, all this political wrangling. Sternley had briefed him well, but the effort of staying so stoic and serious in the face of such danger was a little overwhelming. He hoped he had acquitted himself so far.

Half a minute later and Harry was looking into the kindly, blue eyes of Dumbledore. The headmaster returned Harry's grin with a small smile of his own, before bowing low before Chernenko.

"My dear Senior Chairperson," he said. "It really is an honour to see you once more. I only wish it were in more fortuitous circumstances."

"Agreed, old friend," replied Faderni. "However, Harry here has told me he has a solution to our mutual problem."

Albus Dumbledore blinked in surprise.

"So he has made me aware via correspondence, Chairperson," said Dumbledore. "But I was not aware that you spoke English."

"I don't," said Chernenko, leading Dumbledore into the room. "But Harry here speaks quite fantastic Albanian."

Dumbledore turned a curious expression to Harry, who stared at the pair of them as though they'd both gone quite mad. Speak fantastic Albanian? He didn't know a word. What did Chernenko mean, he didn't speak English? That's what they were speaking right now.

Was it some sort of code?

"Good morning, Harry," said Dumbledore, coming into the room and producing his own chair on a third side of the table.

"Good morning, Professor," replied Harry.

"Now that's an interesting accent," remarked Dumbledore. "Durës with a touch of Kukës, if my ear serves me well."

Harry stared blankly at the Headmaster.

"Ah," said Dumbledore. "Well that explains a great deal."

Both Chernenko and Harry waited for Dumbledore to elaborate, but when no explanation seemed forthcoming, the Chairperson turned his attention to Harry.

"So Harry," he said. "You had intended to tell us your tale of Valbonë. Now please, go ahead."


	43. Chapter 43

**A/N - I've had a couple of questions about the length of this story— there will be seven more updates until this is complete. I've also had questions about the possibility of a sequel— I have one planned, though nothing written just yet. I probably won't release any of it until I've got a good chunk of it finished. Essentially, the better I feel about the way this is received, the more inclined I'm going to be to write more of the sequel. **

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë**  
**Chapter Forty Three**

By the time Harry finished his story, both Dumbledore and Chernenko had odd expressions on their faces. The Headmaster regarded Harry through curious eyes, as though weighing him up. The Chairperson on the other hand held a suspicious expression on his face, one that plainly said he suspected Harry a liar.

In fairness, there was some truth to that. Harry hadn't spoken of the Zana, of Voldemort or of Lucius Malfoy. Instead telling them he'd been caught up in the first wave of goblin attacks and spent some time with Gjergj and his men. The significant look from Dumbledore had told him that the Headmaster knew there was more to the story. Harry would be happy to fill him in on the other details when the Chairperson was gone.

Faderni shifted in his chair and snorted, his eyes darting from Dumbledore to Harry and then back again, before settling on Harry.

"You expect me to swallow this nonsense?" he asked, then turned to Dumbledore. "That a twelve year old boy and a talking hat came up with this plan together? I don't know what your intentions are, Albus, but—"

"I assure you, Chairperson," interjected Dumbledore. "That I have had no part in the formulation of this scheme. If anything, I believe I am merely another pawn in the machinations of Mr. Potter here."

Chernenko looked, if anything, more disbelieving.

"He's twelve, Albus. A boy."

A small smile leapt to the lips of Dumbledore, who still hadn't taken his eyes from Harry.

"He might well be twelve, Chernenko, but you would be a fool to underestimate Harry Potter. I know for a fact that he has overcome hurdles in the last two years that would have killed grown wizards," said Dumbledore, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. "Twelve, yes. A boy? I think not."

Chernenko looked between them one final time and then sighed, gripping the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb.

"I don't know what to make of this at all, Albus," he said. "It all seems so bizarre and unlikely."

"My experience with Mr. Potter is that things are more often bizarre and unlikely than not," offered Dumbledore, unhelpfully, if anything.

"Yes, yes. So you say." Faderni looked to Harry. "The ICW are convening in three days to hold your trial, until then you are to be held in a secure suite of the Krujë. If you can achieve the first stage of your plan by then, as the prosecuting party, I will move to dismiss the case on grounds of diminished responsibility."

This surprised Harry.

"I didn't think you were going to give me a trial," he blurted out, before he could stop himself. "I mean, I thought I was already guilty in your eyes."

Chernenko fixed Harry with a gaze that made him feel very stupid.

"Surely you're not of the assumption that we're in the casual habit of convicting children to death?" When he saw from Harry's sheepish expression that this was true, Faderni laughed and turned away. "We're Albanians, Mr. Potter, not savages."

This said, he departed.

Harry glanced at Dumbledore, unsure of whether the Headmaster was going to be angry, or disappointed in him. In actual fact, his expression held neither of those things; instead a small smile rested on Dumbledore's face and he gave Harry a little wink.

"I believe in light of this latest development," he began. "That you may be in need of my legal counsel. If you would like to retain my, and excuse my immodesty, quite formidable services, I shall require payment at the rate of one knut per calendar year. Payable, of course, at a later date."

Harry grinned and offered his hand across the table, which Dumbledore shook. The headmaster's fingers were warm and surprisingly strong.

"It's good to see you, professor," he said.

"And I, you," replied Dumbledore. "Though I wish it were under more fortuitous circumstances. Nonetheless, I see you have made the best of things."

"I only play the hand I'm dealt."

Harry made a show of lifting his stump from the table and Dumbledore's mood darkened.

"How are you, Harry, truly?" he asked, his expression dripping concern.

"I'm fine, Professor," replied Harry and found that, in all honesty, it was true. He was out of the woods, so to speak. "Believe it or not, somehow all of this has helped me. It's changed me, for better and for worse. I'm not as broken any more. Or at least, not in the same way."

"And was your hand truly lost to Goblin curse? Perhaps there is a chance that it could be salvaged."

Harry described the spell that severed his hand; the bright, blistering flame that Malfoy used. Dumbledore's face fell and he bowed his head in Harry's direction.

"I'm sorry, Harry," he said and he sounded it. "I do not believe that the effects of this particular curse can be reversed. I suspect your hand is lost."

Harry shrugged, he had resigned himself to the loss of his hand, hearing it from the greatest wizard in the world only confirmed what he'd already known.

"Professor, did Sternley and Hedwig—"

"Ah, yes," interjected Dumbledore. "I did wonder when you might ask me that. They are safe and well in the capable hands of Ron Weasley and his family. I must say I rather took your owl by surprise when I met them in mid-air halfway across Europe." At Harry's astonishment, Albus' eyes gleamed once more. "I had rather anticipated your plan and the moment I heard that you had been apprehended, I thought it best to proceed with all due haste."

Harry's face broke into a wide smile. Say what you like about the Headmaster, you couldn't accuse him of being behind the door.

"Now," said Dumbledore, surreptitiously glancing around him before waving his wand and producing magic that Harry could feel, but didn't recognise. "I believe there were some elements of your tale upon which you exercised discretion when relating them to the Chairperson. Entirely commendable, of course. But we ought to be safe enough talking here. After all, the Albanians are well known for their hospitality."

Harry nodded and began to tell Dumbledore all of the pieces he'd left out. About Vocerr, Ksheta, Voldemort and Lucius Malfoy. How he fought to the death, how he lost his hand, how he almost died with strong hands squeezing the life out of him and how he'd imprisoned the Dark Lord at the top of the tower.

By the end of the story, he felt tears prickling at his eyes and he brushed them away, then looked up into the face of Albus Dumbledore. The Headmaster looked older and more weary than Harry could ever have imagined it.

"So Lucius Malfoy is dead?" mused the Headmaster. "I believed myself above such pettiness, but I dare say I am glad."

"Me too," said Harry.

"And Voldemort?"

"I left him there, sir. Either he escaped or he got blown up with the tower when the goblins reached it."

"As you've said," replied Dumbledore. "But you misunderstand the question; you had a chance to take revenge on the Dark Lord at the top of the tower. The opportunity make him suffer as he's made you suffer. It must have been very tempting."

"It was," admitted Harry, brow folded in thought. "But that's how he wins, isn't it?"

Dumbledore looked at him in considerable surprise.

"I mean," continued Harry. "I wanted to. But I realised that it's what he'd do. And I'm never going to stop fighting him and neither are you, right?"

"Correct," replied Dumbledore.

"And neither is any good person. So the only way evil can ever really win is to make all of us as bad as them. Right? I mean, Malfoy and the goblins and the oiks were all different, by killing them, I stopped them from doing any more damage. But I couldn't have killed Voldemort, so by taking my revenge, I wouldn't be helping anyone. It would just be acting like him. And that's how he wins."

Dumbledore's eyes were full of a fierce pride.

"I am deeply sorry that you have had to experience horrors such as these, Harry," he said, his voice thin and reedy. "No young person should have their childhood snatched away from them as you have. I cannot—"

"It's alright, professor," said Harry, with the weakest of smiles. "I meant what I said before; I am better for it. I've had a lot of time to think and I've realised something. I fled Hogwarts because I was scared. Scared of what had happened in the chamber, scared of dying.

"But in the forest, I realised that I'm going to die. If not tomorrow, then in seventy or a hundred years. It sounds stupid, because that's obvious, but I'd been living as though I ought to live forever. But I can't and so I'm not scared any more. Not of dying at least. It's not the worst thing that can happen, is it?"

There was an odd expression on Dumbledore's face. Something like triumph, pride and a great sadness, all rolled into one.

"You, Harry," said the Headmaster, after a long time, his voice almost cracking beneath the heavy load of emotion in his tone. "Are a great deal wiser than you have any place to be."

Harry didn't think he'd ever flushed so hard in his entire life.

A little later, Harry and Dumbledore were escorted, by four aurors, to an enormous room full of large fireplaces. Here, dozens of witches and wizards were either appearing or disappearing amongst emerald green flames.

Harry groaned.

"Not floo powder," he said, more to himself than anyone. But the expression his guard gave him empathised with Harry's dislike.

One of the aurors went first, followed by Dumbledore and two of the remaining three aurors stepped into one of the oversized fireplaces, leading Harry between them.

"The Krujë!" one of them shouted into the flames.

Then they were whizzing past dozens and dozens of open hearths, the occupants of each apparently unaware of them as they shot by.

The fireplace they stepped out of was located in an enormous dining room. A long, ornately carved dining table sat atop an even more elaborate marble floor. The walls, coated in thick, cream plaster, were barely visible behind the plethora of tapestries that hung on every available surface.

Harry emerged between the two aurors, coughing soot left, right and centre. Dumbledore offered him a handkerchief and a smile. Harry wiped his face, glanced down at the blackened cloth and grinned sheepishly at Dumbledore.

"I think you'd best keep that one, Harry," said Dumbledore. "I dare say I have too many."

They were escorted from this dining room through a series of passages that reminded Harry so strongly of Hogwarts that he was suddenly overwhelmed with homesickness. Dumbledore seemed to notice, for he placed a reassuring hand on Harry's shoulder.

When they arrived in what Chernenko had termed a 'secure suite', Harry's mouth dropped.

The room they entered was large and circular, with large, plush furnishings in red and black. On both the left and right were thick, mahogany doors that appeared to lead into adjoining rooms and in the centre of the room was a round table. But undoubtedly the focal point of the whole thing was the far wall, which was comprised of a single, enormous window that overlooked the rest of the Krujë.

Which Harry realised was an enormous, elaborate castle.

It was at least as big as Hogwarts herself and was situated at the top of a craggy hill, at the base of which nestled a picturesque town. The early morning sunshine seemed to set the buildings ablaze, their white plaster walls gleaming and their terracotta roofs burning bright red in the intense light.

Harry glanced back at the others to see the Albanians smiling at each other, pleased with his astonishment. Dumbledore, beside him, was also taking in the magnificent view.

"Welcome to the Krujë," said one of the aurors. "Have a pleasant stay."

Then they left, closing the doors behind them. Harry heard the bolt slam home with an odd finality, but found that he didn't much mind. If this was to be his prison cell; a more luxurious one couldn't be found.

"What is this place?" he asked Dumbledore.

"This is the Krujë," responded the headmaster. "For the last two centuries, all the most important political prisoners of Albania have been held here. You join the ranks of a very select few; diplomats, heads of state and foreign hostages."

"It looks more like a posh hotel than a prison."

"Indeed," replied Dumbledore. "But don't let the appearance deceive you. It is almost as formidable a prison as our own Azkaban. In fact, I believe I am correct in thinking that only one man has ever escaped it."

Something in the way that the Headmaster said those final words caught Harry's attention.

"You—?" he began, but Dumbledore laughed and shook his head.

"No. I have never been a prisoner in the Krujë."

The Headmaster walked to the window and gazed out across the castle with obvious nostalgia written on his features. The expression was almost as fond as the ones he reserved for Hogwarts. He looked back and Harry caught a glimmer of humour in his eye.

"But I did once help a man escape it."


	44. Chapter 44

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë**  
**Chapter Forty Four**

"Are you ready, Harry?"

"I guess I'd better be. They'll be here in two minutes."

"Remember you're pay-rolling this with your money. Assert yourself as soon as possible, or they'll all be clamouring to be top dog."

"May I suggest politeness as a tactic?"

"No you may not, Albus. Kindly shut up."

Harry couldn't help but giggle at Sternley's forthrightness, but Dumbledore didn't look the slightest surprised or offended, instead he gave Harry a tiny wink.

The three of them were sitting, or in Sternley's case resting, on one side of the large, round table in Harry's rooms at the Krujë. On the opposite side were six well spaced chairs. Each of the seats were grand and formal, but none of them as grand and formal as Harry's, which was more like a throne than anything else.

The grandeur of it was uncomfortable to Harry, but both Dumbledore and Sternley had insisted, for appearance's sake. Likewise, they had also advised him to wear his Oik fur cape, though Harry didn't mind this, for he felt he'd earned it.

To Harry's left was an empty seat, that Dumbledore hadn't explained and but the headmaster had just smiled when Harry raised its existence.

"I'm serious," continued the hat. "This isn't some frilly-robe wearing, knitted yogurt, ICW convention. These are a pack of trained killers for hire. You can't be seen as weak."

"May I enquire, by chance," replied Dumbledore, humour evident in his tone. "What, precisely, is a knitted yogurt?"

Harry couldn't help it; he dissolved into tears of laughter that the Headmaster and Sorting Hat both seemed to find perplexing. They both turned curious expressions upon him, but that made Harry laugh harder. Eventually he managed to pull himself together, just in time for the knock that came at the outer doors of the chamber.

"Enter," ordered Harry, with as much calm as he could manage.

Again, it had been Dumbledore and Sternley's advice that he act imperious. Harry understood the logic behind it, even if it made him feel every bit the tosser that Draco Malfoy was.

The door opened and a rather meek looking man appeared in the doorway. A patched cloak topped his shabby suit and grey flecked his light brown hair. But it was his face that caught Harry's attention, for it was oddly familiar.

"Ah, Remus," said Dumbledore, standing and smiling at the newcomer. "Do come in. Harry, this is—"

"I know you," said Harry, his brow folded into a frown. "I know you from somewhere, but I don't know where."

Everyone in the room was silent for a moment. The newcomer's face shifted momentarily to surprise, then he broke into a smile that Dumbledore emulated.

"May I suggest, Harry," said the Headmaster. "That you recognise Remus from your photograph album. He was once a good friend of your father."

This surprised Harry somewhat, but he realised that it was precisely where he'd seen the man before. Though he looked far more ragged and ill-kempt now than he had in the photographs of his parent's wedding.

"Remus," continued Dumbledore. "Will be joining Hogwarts in the autumn as our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. He answered the advert after our unfortunate accident with regards to his predecessor."

Dumbledore's eyes gleamed and Harry gave him a sheepish grin.

"I trust him implicitly and, considering our other, livelier guests, believed we might require the services of another friendly wand," concluded the Headmaster.

After a long pause, Harry realised that Lupin was waiting for him to give him permission to sit down. This made his face flush and he indicated the seat beside him.

"Please, professor," he said. "Take a seat."

Lupin smiled politely and came to sit on Harry's left.

"It's good to see you again, Harry," he said. "The last time I did, you were just a baby."

This made Harry's face flush again, though he didn't know why, but he gave Lupin a welcoming grin nonetheless. He opened his mouth to say something, but a robust knock at the door interrupted him.

"Enter," commanded Harry, remembering his place a little sooner this time.

The doors were flung open and a man entered the room, flanked on either side by two Albanian aurors. There was nothing of Remus Lupin's timid entrance here, the wizard all but swaggered in. He gave Harry's side of the table a courteous, but dramatic tip of his Stetson and sat.

"Presenting," said one of the aurors. "Alexander Boothe, of Blackthorne Industries."

"Howdy," said Boothe, in the strongest Texan accent Harry had ever heard.

"Afternoon," replied Harry, taking the man in.

He'd attired himself, to all intents and purposes, like a cowboy. His clothing wouldn't have been inappropriate on the Western plains of America; with his tan waistcoat, white shirt and denim jeans tucked into heeled, dragon leather boots.

Harry suspected that on another man, his Stetson, pulled low over dark blue eyes, would have been dramatic and mysterious. But on a face as youthful as Boothe's it seemed overblown and ridiculous.

"I'm the first here?" he asked, glancing around the empty room. "I was hoping to be fashionably late."

"I think you may have to settle for being fashionably early," replied Lupin, looking amused.

The Texan regarded him through narrowed eyelids.

"We haven't been introduced. These two, I can guess," he said, indicating Dumbledore and Harry. "But you, on the otherhand—"

"Will remain a mystery," interjected Harry.

Boothe's eyebrows peaked but he shrugged and made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat.

"You're the boss," he said. Which was what Harry wanted to hear.

They all sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment, then there was another knock at the door. The auror opened it once more.

"Presenting Gjergj of Albania."

Gjergj came into the room, gave the Texan a fleeting glance and then fixed his eyes on Harry.

"Harry," he said, smiling. "My friend."

"Gjergj," replied Harry, grinning. "It is good to see you. How is Anna? Take a seat."

The General did as commanded. The sensation of ordering about a friend was an uncomfortable experience for Harry. But he maintained the smile.

"She is well. I do believe she has intended to marry you some day, you're all she's spoken of in the last few days."

Harry's face flushed and Boothe gave a deep laugh. Gjergj glanced in his direction and the Texan wilted under the Albanian's stern glare.

Harry wished there was more time for him to catch up with his friend, but a moment later there was another knock at the door. It was opened this time, not by an auror, but by an enormous, bare-chested man.

"By jove," exclaimed Alex and Harry could see why.

The newcomer was taller than Dumbledore and as wide as Gjergj, which made him a formidable looking man. What made him look even more intimidating were the dozens of scars that criss-crossed his torso. His face was a grim mask, all hard lines and solid, chiselled features.

Straight, dark hair cascaded from his head and to his shoulders, where it met a cape of similar material to Harry's own. On his lower half he wore a pair of hide leggings that, rather unfortunately, didn't leave quite enough to the imagination.

"Presenting," said the auror, following the man into the room. "The Walker in Chaos."

The man didn't speak, but instead glowered at Harry, who, after holding his gaze a moment, indicated the seats before him. The Walker in Chaos gave a single, slow nod and then took the proffered seat.

"So what, exactly, are you?" asked Alex, examining the enormous man with a cautious air. "A half-giant?"

The Walker in Chaos examined Boothe as though he were something unpleasant on the bottom of his bare feet.

"Zauberer," he said.

"Bless you," replied the Texan.

"He's a German warlock," supplied Sternley, each of the newcomers, except Gjergj who had become accustomed to it by now, looked to the hat with an element of surprise. "Who leads a particularly ferocious warband."

The Walker in Chaos considered this for a moment, decided it was a compliment and the inclined his head in Sternley's direction.

"The hat talks sense," he said.

There came a fourth knock at the door.

"Finally, presenting Fangstone and Urglun of the Fifth Legion," said the auror, looking and sounding disgusted at having to introduce the pair of goblins that sauntered in after him.

A moment later, the room descended into chaos.

Gjergj leapt to his feet, hands balled into fists, murder evident in his eyes. The Walker in Chaos, taken aback by this abrupt motion, produced his wand and levelled it at the Albanian. The Texan, for his part, drew a pair of pistols with blinding speed and aimed each of them between the eyes of a goblin.

The Goblins, Fangstone and Urglurn, seemed unconcerned by proceedings, ignored the others, and instead walked over and bowed low to Harry.

"Fangstone and Urglurn, at your service, m'lord," said one.

"A great pleasure, we're sure," said the other.

"Be seated," commanded Harry, his tone as firm as he could make it. "All of you. We're friends here."

"I don't imagine Tweedledee and Tweedledum know the meaning of the word," said Alex, his voice cold, but Harry noticed he'd holstered his pistols.

"Oh look," said one of the goblins, excitedly.

"It's the Marlboro man," exclaimed the other, happily.

"I thought we'd left you dead at the walls of Tripoli," said the first.

"You tried," spat Boothe. "And failed."

"Gjergj," said Harry. His friend was the only one still standing, staring at the pair of Goblins. "They're allies, I promise."

Fangstone and Urglurn looked at the Albanian, appeared to understand the man's concern and both gave him a deep bow.

"We cordially assure you," said one, straightening up. "That we hate the Brotherhood of Goblins as much as anyone."

"In fact," continued the other. "If we weren't so hard on cash, we'd be all for fighting this war entirely gratis."

The Texan snorted.

"Likely story," he said. "You're as likely to stick to the same side as it is to snow in Dallas in August."

"You must get a lot of skiing done then," replied one of the goblins. Harry still couldn't be sure which.

"As it happens, the Brotherhood of Goblins neither wants, nor can afford our services. Especially not since Fangstone boffed Bodrod's mother."

"Whatever," snapped Boothe, fingers inching towards his pistols. "I can't and won't work with them."

"Then leave," replied Harry, his voice like thunder. Everyone turned and looked at him in surprise, colour rose to his face and he fought it away. "But be warned that the next person who draws a weapon in this room loses the hand they used to draw it."

He slammed his stump down on the table, emphasising his point. All of the people on the other side of the table looked at him with a somewhat increased measure of respect and, more importantly in Harry's eyes, fell silent.

"Now," he began, accentuating the word. "We all know why we are here, perhaps we do not all know each other. I will introduce each of you in turn and describe your importance to the mission. After this, you will have an opportunity to leave; this will be your only chance. Am I understood?"

He gazed around at each of them in turn, hoping that none of them noticed how rehearsed the speech was and how awkward he'd given it. It appeared that if any of them did, they decided not to mention it.

"Good," he said. "Now, let's begin. Gjergj here is the General in charge of the muggle forces on the ground. They're currently holding our front-lines, and doing it well—"

He went through each of them in turn, his practiced spiel coming easier the more he spoke. He knew each of their companies and roles, their strengths and numbers, off by heart. Boothe's Blackthorne Industries, they called themselves purveyors of magical weaponry. But Sternley had explained that they were, to all purposes, just gun runners. Though they'd been known to do their own share of the fighting.

Then there was Fangstone and Urglurn's Fifth Legion, the largest group of goblin sell-swords that hadn't already pledged their allegiance to The Brotherhood of Goblins. Like Boothe, Harry wasn't convinced that they could be trusted. But Sternley had made the point that any infiltration would have to be performed by goblins from one source or another.

Harry didn't quite know what to make of enigmatic The Walker in Chaos, whose warband was two-hundred strong. Not the largest force, by any stretch of the imagination, but each of them were veterans and trained killers. And Sternley knew that he had a particular grudge against the Brotherhood, something that was always useful when dealing with mercenaries.

Lastly there was the empty seat that separated the two Goblins from the others. That seat Harry had intended to go to Jayne Cosca, of the Free Companies, but no word or envoy had arrived. Harry couldn't pretend this wasn't a bitter blow, The Free Companies were nearly a thousand strong. But then again, five out of six was better than they'd hoped for.

In the end, not one of them left. Nor did Harry have to cut anyone's hand off. Instead, there was a productive exchange of information and ideas; Gjergj had an accurate and tactically valuable account of the current situation. Boothe offered to supply his troops with weapons, equipment and food. The Walker in Chaos took one of his flanks and The Fifth Company took the other.

All in all, once they'd left, Harry felt as though something of great merit had been achieved.

As the door closed behind The Walker, the last to leave, Harry turned to Dumbledore and Sternley.

"So how do you think that went?" he asked.

"Personally, I think it all went rather well," came an unfamiliar voice from behind them.


	45. Chapter 45

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë**  
**Chapter Forty Five**

The next moment, all three of them were on their feet, chairs knocked aside as they turned to face the intruder. Lupin and Dumbledore produced wands, while Harry stared at the figure silhouetted in the window.

It took Harry a moment to realise that the shape was, in fact, that of a woman.

"Now, now," she said, raising the palms of her hands. "Watch where you're pointing those wands, mateys. I'm happy with my internal organs just the way they are."

A few tense moments passed, where everyone took stock of the situation.

"If she'd meant us harm," said Harry. "She had every opportunity to strike first."

"See, the little man has more sense than you two," she said, still not lowering her hands. "If I wanted, I could've killed the lot of you three times over."

Dumbledore smiled and pocketed his wand, Lupin followed suite, albeit more grudgingly.

"That's better," said the intruder, stepping forward where the light streaming through the window behind her didn't obscure her features. "Harry Potter, I'm Jayne Cosca, commander of the Free Companies. Pleased to be of service, matey."

She made a low bow, her auburn ponytail dangling to the ground. When she rose, she flicked it over her broad shoulder and Harry caught sight of some of the most striking features he'd ever seen.

Jayne Cosca was not beautiful, and calling her pretty would have been a disservice. Yet her face possessed a strange, rugged handsomeness that suited her. Hazel eyes gleamed with laughter in a face browned by the sun and her crooked smile was both infectious and endearing.

She wore a long, red tunic adorned with all manner of buckles and met at the knee by brown dragon-hide boots. Around her waist hung a white sash, weighted down on one side by a rapier in an ornate scabbard. On each wrist was a plated bracer, made of gleaming steel and the same hide as her boots.

"You're late," said Harry, with a shrug, doing his best to sound uninterested. "The meeting is over."

Jayne broke into a broad smile. She gave a throaty little chuckle and reached out to tousle his head. Both the wands came up once more and she pulled her hand back.

"Okay, okay," she said. "Jumpy, aren't they, these two?" Then, to Harry: "You're a scallywag, aren't you? I was listening through that meeting thinking to myself 'gosh, if he isn't just 'the brat who lived'. But you're actually just a scamp playing at being a brat. "

"But I get it now." She turned a shrewd look on Dumbledore. "You're the puppet master, right matey? You don't want to implicate yourself in this conflict, so you're using him as a figurehead to hide behind. Very subtle. Especially if you don't want to drag your school into—"

"Actually," interrupted Sternley. "I'm the strategist, Albus here is merely our legal counsel."

They all looked at him.

"What?" he asked. "At least give credit where credit is due. I pretty much came up with this entire plan. Harry is just the mouthpiece."

"Oi," said Harry. "I had a hand in it."

Nobody seemed amused by his joke.

"Look, I've given you all a bit of a shock," continued Cosca. "But a lady in my position can't just turn up announced to every summon, can she? Or else she'd be dead. Multiple times. Especially when the likes of Alex Boothe and those goblin fella's are hanging around."

Harry suspected she had a point. As, apparently, did Dumbledore.

"Admittedly," said the Headmaster. "We may not taken into consideration the possibility of existing hostility—"

"I'll say you didn't, matey," interjected Jayne, but Dumbledore silenced her with a glance.

"—However, the intention behind this meeting was to demonstrate good faith. As you have clearly chosen not to involve yourself in these deliberations, I wonder if you could, by chance, elucidate your intentions for revealing your presence now."

Jayne stared at Dumbledore for a moment, then raised an eyebrow and looked at Harry.

"Cor, he uses a lot of fancy words, doesn't he, matey?"

Harry couldn't help it; he laughed. Whether it was a symptom of his jangled nerves, or if he'd found her genuinely amusing, he wasn't be sure. But what he did know is that he'd never heard anyone speak to the Headmaster like that before.

"I think he's asking why you're here now," said Harry.

"Ah," she said, as though that explained a great deal. "Well, I want to offer my services and those of my Companies. Entirely free of charge."

"And why would you do that?" asked Lupin. "What's in it for you?"

"Ah," she said again. "Well, all I would ask for in exchange, is first crack at the Vaults of Valbonë."

This piqued Harry's curiosity, but it was Sternley who spoke next.

"The Vaults are a myth," said the Sorting Hat.

"They are not," she said. "Why else do you think everyone in the meeting today played so nicely with one another? Why do you think that Boothe agreed to cooperate with the goblins? Why do you think the goblins are here at all? It's nowt to do with the rates you're offering, let me assure you."

"The rates are fair, considering the work," said Sternley.

"For fighting against a goblin revolt? You're short twenty galleons a man per week, matey. At the least."

"They were welcome to try and negotiate," said Harry, but the moment he'd said it, something clicked in his head.

Harry saw from the expression on Dumbledore's face that they'd both come to the same conclusion. She was right, the rates were low. Sternley and Harry set them low with the knowledge that whatever they'd started with would be negotiated up.

"But none of them did," said Dumbledore, his voice quiet and thoughtful.

The expression on Jayne's face said it all. She let it hang between them for a moment.

"Anyway, maybe it exists, maybe it doesn't. If it doesn't, you've gained a thousand wands for nothing. If it does, well, you've only lost something you didn't believe existed." She looked at each of them in turn. "Come on, matey, you know that you can't afford half of my men otherwise, I've done my research on you."

Harry couldn't help but concede she was right. Even all the gold from Malfoy's vault, if they ever managed to tap into it, wouldn't have afforded The Free Companies. Not with all their other mercenaries as well; they hadn't expected the enthusiastic response they'd received. But Harry wasn't about to admit that, or the fact that he hadn't the foggiest idea what the Vaults of Valbonë were.

"There's no way we can say for certain," said Sternley. "That you'll get first crack. There are other players out of our control. Albania and the ICW will field troops."

"The Albanians and the ICW troops wouldn't know their arse from a battlefield," replied Jayne. "It shouldn't be hard for you to convince them to make us the spearhead of a counter-attack. They'll be only too eager to save their own men at our expense. I'm only too happy to lay down my men's lives. Can't you see it's a match made in heaven?"

All eyes fell on Harry, who realised that Jayne had him over a barrel. Even he, with as little as he understood about warfare, knew that they could sorely do with her extra troops. He was entirely aware that they would help minimise innocent casualties and end the war faster. Not to mention that the additional gold saved might be put to far greater use elsewhere.

But he also knew that whatever the Vaults of Valbonë were, he didn't want them falling into the hands of Jayne Cosca.

"Fine," he said finally. "I will do my best to put your men at the front of the counter-attack and to keep the others out of the way. In return, you will do your best to win the war."

Jayne's expression morphed into a triumphant smile.

"You won't regret this, matey," she swore, voice solemn.

But Harry already did.

The moment she'd been escorted from the room, Harry turned to Sternley and Dumbledore.

"What have I just agreed to?"

"Nothing," replied Sternley. "The Vaults are a myth. An old wives tale."

"Jayne Cosca doesn't believe that."

"Jayne Cosca is an old goat."

Harry laughed. Though it hadn't escaped his notice just how much she'd manipulated circumstances to her own end, he couldn't help but like Jayne. At least she'd been upfront about her dishonesty.

"The Vaults of Valbonë," began Dumbledore, cutting across Sternley's further besmirching of Jayne Cosca's name. "Are in essence, a story of buried treasure. The Goblins, well known for their love of gold, were accused of sacking a number of major Roman cities during the last Great War. And of stealing a trove of valuable, irreplaceable, magical artefacts in the process; a trove which is said to include a number of pieces that pre-date Merlin.

"When they withdrew to Valbonë, stories tell that they relocated the articles to a series of enormous stone vaults hidden beneath the mountains. Here they are said to have remained, guarded by the goblins, to this day."

"You're too fond of stories, Albus," snapped the hat. "You conveniently missed out the part where it makes absolutely no sense."

"I must concede his point," said Dumbledore, though his eyes sparkled mischievously.

"I don't see it," said Harry, frowning. "What doesn't make sense?"

"The Brotherhood of Goblins has been haemorrhaging wealth since the eighteenth century when they succeeded in an attempt to make Valbonë a formally recognised, independent, magical republic," said Lupin. "They're so far in the pocket of Gringotts at this stage that if they'd ever had any valuable artefacts, they're almost certainly pawned by now."

"So why is everyone so keen to get at them, then?"

Dumbledore smiled.

"Old stories die hard," he said. "Especially ones regarding treasure."

"And if they're right? If there are these treasures?"

"They we'll have to play Jayne Cosca at her own game," said Sternley. "And any other mercenaries that try their hand. For now though, we've got to be focusing on the war. Let Jayne Cosca dream of gold and riches. We have bigger fish to fry."

Harry knew Sternley was right. The war was far more important than treasure; people's lives were at stake. But part of him couldn't help but imagine finding it, beating everyone to the Vaults deep beneath Valbonë.

Not that he needed the money, between Malfoy's vault and his own, Harry had enough to see him through dozens of lifetimes. Though at the rate the war was costing him, he'd be surprised if it lasted him one. Even still, it wasn't the treasure he was interested in, but the game.

Perhaps, just perhaps, when he got back to Hogwarts, he'd do his own research on the Vaults.

After all, what harm could come of a little light reading?


	46. Chapter 46

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë**  
**Chapter Forty Six**

The courtroom was packed to capacity with wizards and witches of all shapes, sizes and creeds. Every available inch of space amongst the stands had been filled, with several having to sit on the knees of others. A head count had concluded that every single member of the International Confederation of Wizards had come to witness what many were already calling 'The Trial of the Decade'.

Before they'd entered the room, Dumbledore had confided to Harry that the last time the ICW had boasted full attendance was in the eighteenth century at the outbreak of the Great Northern War.

Harry wasn't sure this had helped settle his nerves too much.

Also packed to capacity was the gallery, which surrounded and overlooked the circular room. But it was not just wizards and witches that filled it but a large number of magical beings had managed to squeeze into the packed crowd. Vampires, hags, a single troll, even a smattering of goblins, along with a dozen races and species Harry couldn't even identify.

And as Sternley had pointed out, rather unhelpfully in Harry's opinion, there were hundreds more trailing out of the gallery, down the corridor and out into the enormous marble entrance hall. Each of them waiting to hear the result of his trial.

He was rather humbled by it all, truth be told. Standing there beside the Headmaster, wearing his oik pelt over a well fitted suit that Lupin had produced for the occasion.

Tobias Martofte, Superior Mugwump and acting Supreme Mugwump in the absence of Dumbledore, took to the central dais and raised his hands for silence.

It was not forthcoming.

Indeed, it took several minutes worth of boos before the ancient, spectacled wizard realised that they were never going to shut up. With a look of annoyed resignation, he produced his wand. He gave it a small flick and the tip exploded like a cannon, producing a thundering noise and an enormous cloud of grey smoke.

Silence fell.

"Good evening, witches and wizards of the International Confederation of Wizards. Good evening, as well, to all our friends and well-wishers in the gallery. We bid you please remain silent for the duration of tonight's proceedings."

A small smattering of additional boos was silenced by another loud bang from Tobias' wand.

"Would the accused please make his way to the stand?"

Dumbledore gave Harry a gentle nudge. He stepped down the narrow, rickety staircase, crossed the circular room and then took to the podium to the left of Tobias.

"Would you please identify yourself for the court?"

"My name is Harry James Potter," said Harry and found his voice amplified to fill the space.

A small section of the crowd in the gallery went crazy at this, whooping and cat-calling and chanting Harry's name. Something flew through the air and before the aurors posted as security could leap to Harry's aide, by instinct he reached up and caught it.

He examined the object with a frown. It was black and lacy and— Harry threw it aside.

"Order," called Tobias up to the balcony. "Would members of the gallery refrain from aiming projectiles at the defendant?"

"Say please!" bellowed back someone.

"Please!" replied Tobias.

To Harry's intense gratification, no further projectiles were forthcoming.

"Would the accuser please make his way to the stand?"

Faderni Chernenko emerged from his own box and came to stand behind the podium on the right of the Superior Mugwump. Tobias gave him the slightest nod.

"Whom does the accuser represent?"

"The People's Republic of Albania and the ICW itself."

"Would the accuser please state the crimes the defendant stands accused of."

"Sir Superior Mugwump," said Faderni. "The defendant stands accused of espionage by way of deliberately breaking a peace treaty between two sovereign nations. In addition to this, he stands accused of high treason against this very—"

Chernenko's final words were lost beneath a barrage of boos, hisses and jeering from the crowd.

Tobias responded with a volley of cannon fire that left Harry clutching his ringing ears.

"And would the accuser please state the punishment sought for these crimes?"

"Death, Superior Mugwump."

Another round of jeering, another volley of cannon fire.

"And would the accuser please, before our gallery riots, state the desired verdict for these crimes?"

"Not guilty, Superior Mugwump, by way of diminished responsibility."

The room fell so quiet you could have heard a pin drop.

"Do you have any evidence to support this claim?"

"With all due respect, Superior Mugwump, the boy went to Valbonë. I think that is evidence enough that he is a complete loon."

This time it was the ICW members who became restless; a gentle murmur sped around the room, like wind through long grass.

"And do you have any evidence to present in support of your allegations against the defendant?"

"No, Superior Mugwump. I have prepared no case."

A single laugh of contempt sounded and a wizard with wild eyes and a bushy beard pushed his way to the forefront.

"I demand to speak!" he shouted.

Tobias considered him, a ponderous expression on his face, then he nodded.

"Superior Mugwump recognises Mugwump Marko Petric of Yugoslavia."

"The defendant is a wretch, but he is of sound mind. He ought to stand trial for the crimes he has committed."

There was a dull noise of agreement from elements of the ICW, but they were drowned beneath the screams of outrage from the gallery.

Tobias Martofte indicated the room with a broad sweep of his arm.

"And what precisely, sir Mugwump, is this, if not a trial?"

The gallery roared with laughter and Harry fancied he could hear quite a significant majority of the ICW members chuckling.

"This, with all due respect, Superior Mugwump, is not so much a trial as a farce. The boy has blatantly and flagrantly broken international wizarding law and out to be punished."

"I do believe, sir Mugwump, that you have failed to understand the key concept of a trial." More howls of laughter. "It is precisely the goal of this organisation to ascertain if and why the defendant has done what he is accused of and then what appropriate punishment he will face. I will hear no further words from you on this matter."

Tobias turned to Harry.

"Defendant, are you in agreement with the accuser? Did you deliberately break a peace treaty between two sovereign nations and in doing commit an act of espionage and similarly find yourself in the act of treason?"

Harry swallowed.

"Sir Superior Mugwump," he said, the words he'd been rehearsing all day springing to his lips. "Though I accept that I did break a peace treaty between two sovereign nations, thus committing both espionage and treason, I would never have knowingly or willingly done so.

"I am fully prepared to accept any legal consequences for my actions. But it is important that every person in this room and in the magical world, understands that I never intended for this travesty to occur."

Tobias nodded and gave Harry a small smile of encouragement.

"And thank you for your indubitably stirring speech. Unless the accused or accuser has anything further to add, I will now consider both of your cases closed and open the matter up to vote.

"Those of you in favour of finding the defendant not guilty by way of diminished responsibility?"

Harry looked around, almost the entirety of the ICW had raised their hands. A small, sullen contingent around the smouldering Marko Petric kept them down.

"A clear majority; motion passed."

The yells of triumph and stamping of feet from the balcony almost drowned out what came next.

"I wish to motion an appeal," shouted Marko Petric, shaking his fist.

"Motion denied," replied Tobias, rolling his eyes.

"In that case I wish to lodge additional charges!" he shouted.

The room fell silent once more.

"You cannot put the boy on trial for something of which he was just acquitted, Marko."

"It is not just Albania that suffered at his act of espionage. If Albania has a valid charge of espionage, so does Yugoslavia, who has been equally affected by the fighting. Dozens of our men have died, Tobias!"

"Marko, the death of your son is regrettable but—"

"IT IS NOT 'REGRETTABLE'!" roared Marko. "IT WAS A CRIME AND I WISH TO SEE A PUNISHMENT."

Silence fell over the court once more. Tobias appeared to give this grave consideration and then finally nodded.

"Have you lodged a formal case with this court?"

"I have not."

"Then I shall put it to a vote now; those in favour of finding the accused not guilty—"

"I do not wish to put it to a vote!" shouted Marko.

"What do you wish to do then?" asked Tobias, sounding very exasperated.

"I wish to challenge the defendant, by the terms of the Sachsenspiegel of 1211, to trial by combat."

Harry stared on in astonishment, it was a sentiment shared by most of the court. Even Tobias, who until this point had been unperturbed by the most chaotic gathering Harry had ever seen, seemed rather surprised by this turn of events.

"If I recall my thirteenth century law correctly, Marko, trial by combat stipulates that only fighters and their swords may enter the arena."

Marko shrugged.

"Furthermore, you do realise you are challenging a twelve year old boy to a fight to the death?"

Marko shrugged again.

"A twelve year old boy who, by his own admission, has to date bested an entire army of goblins, a hundred fully trained Albanian aurors and is wearing both a sword and the pelt of a goblin oik he killed and skinned himself."

Harry could tell that Marko Petric was having second thoughts. But Tobias gave a casual little shrug.

"It's your funeral, old friend," he said. "Defendant, do you accept—"

"Challenge withdrawn," said Marko and then disappeared into the ranks of the ICW.

"In that case," said Tobias. "Unless there are any further matters—"

"Actually," interjected Harry. "May I address the room?"

Tobias gave him a weary glance.

"If you must."

Harry produced a small piece of folded parchment and cleared his throat. As he prepared to speak he realised that every member of the gallery and almost every other person in the court was listening with bated breath for what he had to say.

It was an unnerving experience, but it was a chance he knew he was unlikely to get again.

"Dear members of the ICW and dear observers in the gallery," he read and there came another room shaking cheer at this. "I will speak only a few words and I hope I will speak them plainly.

"This is a call to arms." He let these words sink in and, as Dumbledore had coached, allowed a moment for the whispers to pass. "But I am not asking you for your sons and daughters, I am not asking you to fight my battles. I understand that you, members of the ICW, are not a council of war."

Harry glanced up and saw that he had not lost their attention.

"You are the visionaries, leaders and architects of our society. You are our scholars, teachers, politicians, and great thinkers. You are the very people that will build the world that we wake up to tomorrow and each day there on.

"I deeply regret my part in causing the situation we now find ourselves in. Yet I feel full responsibility cannot fall on my shoulders alone. It is an extremely sick and broken world where the actions of a single adolescent boy can cause a major armed conflict between otherwise civilised nations.

"When we win this war, and win it we shall, we will be presented with a singular opportunity. A singular opportunity to right the injustices of this world and of our society. An opportunity to construct a new paradigm, by which each and every being is afforded the same rights, the same justices and the same, equal treatment.

"Wizards and witches of the ICW," Harry's throat began to dry up with the effort of giving his speech. He managed to tear his eyes away from the parchment and stare around him into the faces around him. "In the past week, dozens if not hundreds of innocents have died for our sins. In the coming months, hundreds more will die fighting. All I ask is that you work to create a world that honours their sacrifices.

"Thank you."


	47. Chapter 47

**A/N - **Apologies for my updates abruptly drying up— I work in academia and the beginning of the summer with graduation and exam boards is always the busiest time of the year. There'll (hopefully) be two more updates tomorrow and Saturday and then there'll be another pause, I'm afraid. However, I'm planning to upload the final chapter of this and the first chapter of the sequel in the first week of August.

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë**  
**Chapter Forty Seven**

"How do you think it went?"

"I think your speech was excellent," replied Lupin.

"So rubbish, in other words," said Harry, laughing.

"That's not what I said."

"That was the gist."

Harry turned to look out of the window of his rooms in the Krujë, gazing out over the town that nestled beneath the castle. The late afternoon sun was setting on the other side of the hill, leaving long, broken shadows across the pale walls.

He wondered briefly if it was a magical village, like Hogsmede. But perhaps not. He remembered Gjergj mentioning not knowing it had upper floors; perhaps parts of the building were muggle accessible and others retained for wizards.

"You're far too perceptive for your age," said Lupin.

This made Harry wonder when he'd become so. Was it something he'd picked up during his time in the forest or had he always been? He couldn't be sure.

"I just happen to know how difficult it is to make real changes in our world," continued Lupin, from the other side of the table. "Precisely just how deep our prejudices run."

Harry could hear the bitterness in Lupin's voice. The man's experiences were personal; something deep and ingrained. He felt curiosity blossom inside him, but knew it was rude to pry.

"You don't think it's possible?"

"I didn't say that. I just think it'll require more than a few speeches." Lupin caught Harry's glance. "It's like— An ocean liner. The wizarding world is this massive, heavy lump of stuff, that's drifting, rudderless. But it's got so much momentum behind it, that it takes ages and ages to turn in one direction or the other. But if you work hard and you're patient and you're lucky— You might just steer it into a safe harbour."

Harry laughed and despite looking slightly affronted, Lupin soon joined in.

"I guess I overplayed that analogy," said Lupin, with a grin.

"You think?" asked Harry, returning it.

"Well we can't all be wonderful public speakers like yourself."

Harry's smile faded.

"I was terrified," he admitted. "If Dumbledore hadn't insisted—"

"I'm not sure that he insisted. If I recall correctly, he merely asked."

Harry frowned at this remark. Perhaps Lupin wasn't aware that when Albus Dumbledore asked you to jump, the correct response was 'how high?'

"Anyway," continued Lupin. "After basilisks and Dark Lords, what's a little public speaking?"

"It was scarier than going up in front of Volde—"

Harry caught himself before he'd uttered the word, but to his surprise, Lupin didn't look shocked at all.

"Don't be afraid to use the name," he said, to Harry's astonishment. "I've met him— Voldemort, I mean— at the height of his power. He's scary, but he's just a wizard. A name is a name."

Harry was about to reply when there was a knock at the door. One of the aurors assigned to guard Harry entered without waiting for permission, bringing with him a tray loaded with food, glass mugs and a French press.

"Lunch," said the auror.

"Thank you," replied Lupin, hurrying to stand. "Would you mind setting it here?"

The auror did as bidden and headed back out the door, offering Harry a wink as he left.

Lupin depressed the plunger on the cafetière and moved to pour the dark liquid into two glass mugs. The coffee steamed, and the aroma that reached Harry's nose was far more pleasant than the deep bitter one that he caught whenever Aunt Petunia made it.

"How do you have yours?" asked Lupin, his fingers lingering on the small jug of milk the aurors had provided.

Harry shrugged in response.

"I don't know," he said. "I've never had any."

"Really? Never?"

Harry shrugged again. He didn't know what to say. He'd never been offered anything as comforting as a hot beverage at Privet Drive. Though he'd once been given tea by Mrs. Figg, and so when he first came to Hogwarts he'd always been far more comfortable with it.

"If you don't like it, we can always ask for something else," continued Lupin, who didn't get Harry's reticence on the subject.

"I'd like to try."

"You've really never tried it before? Your aunt or uncle never offered you a sip of theirs as a kid?"

"I didn't really have that sort of childhood, professor."

It was Lupin's turn to frown, it looked as though he wanted to ask Harry precisely what sort of childhood he did have, but thought it impolite.

"Remus, when we're alone, if you wouldn't mind, Harry," he said, offering Harry a small smile. "We've plenty of time when we're both at school for 'professor'."

Harry considered this. Was Lupin trying to instill some sense of comradeship between them? Was he putting them on a level playing field in order to win points with Harry? He snorted to himself; he was being paranoid. Perhaps Lupin just found being called 'professor' uncomfortable.

"Okay, Remus," he said, and then, after a moment of consideration. "Black."

Lupin reacted as though struck by lightning; he knocked the sugar flying and almost fell off his chair. He stared at Harry as though he'd said something in a foreign language.

"Excuse me?"

"My coffee; I'd like to try it black."

Lupin blinked, looked down at the ground and let out a shaky breath. Harry had no idea what to say; the word had upset the professor, but why on earth that was the case, Harry couldn't be sure.

"Right," said Lupin. "Right. Sorry, I thought you meant— Nevermind. Black it is, coming up."

He offered Harry the mug and flashed him a wan smile.

Harry decided to change the subject.

"What was my dad like? Was he a good friend?"

This too seemed to make Lupin uncomfortable. He hunched his shoulders and busied himself with his coffee, pushing his face deep into the mug and taking a gulp. Harry sipped at his own and found it scalding hot.

"He was the greatest man I've ever known," said Lupin.

"Really?" asked Harry, feeling disappointed for some reason.

He couldn't be sure what he'd wanted Lupin to say. All he he'd ever heard about his parents was that they were great people or that they were a talented witch and wizard. Perhaps he wanted to know that they were human, as well.

"Isn't that a good thing?" asked Lupin. "Isn't it good to hear nice things about them?"

"Of course it is," snapped Harry. "I was just— It's just that everyone tells me that and—"

"You were looking for something more meaningful?"

"Yeah," replied Harry. "I don't know anything about them as people, only as some shining example of perfection. And nobody is really like that, are they? Not even Dumbledore."

"Especially not Dumbledore," said Lupin and though it sounded off-hand. Harry thought there might something more to that. But Lupin carried on, heedless. "Okay, well, how about I tell you about the time that James—"

But whatever anecdote Lupin had planned to relate was interrupted by a sudden knock at the door. They waited for the auror to enter as he had before, but there was nothing.

The knock came again.

Harry could see from Lupin's face that he felt as uneasy about it as he. Indeed, the professor beckoned Harry closer.

"Come in?" called Remus, fingers ready on his wand's grip.

The door opened a crack and a familiar, but unwelcome face appeared at the gap. Marko Petric leaned a little into the room and glanced around.

"Dumbledore?" he asked.

"He's at the ICW Conference," replied Harry. "As should you, Mr. Petric."

Remus stiffened at these words and Harry realised his mistake. Marko Petric should have been at the meeting and if he'd attended at all, he'd have known that Dumbledore was chairing it. Lupin produced his wand at exactly the same time as the Yugoslavian wizard burst into the room, his own wand already in his hand.

Then there was a sudden and violent exchange of spellfire.

Harry leapt aside as a bright yellow curse shot past him and shattered the enormous window behind him. Lupin responded in kind with a purple spell, that Marko blocked effortlessly. A moment later and the professor was on the defensive, blocking furiously as the Mugwump rained spells down on him. The ricochets caught the table, the hanging tapestries and the plush furnishings alight.

Harry could see from the expression in the Mugwump's eyes that he was beyond all sense of reason. He could tell too, from the way that the duel was playing out that Lupin wasn't going to last very long; Marko Petric was far too skilled.

Reacting more by instinct than on the basis of any formulated strategy, Harry rose, seized the cafetière and hurled it across the room with uncanny accuracy. Petric reacted instantly, not even looking in Harry's direction before striking it out of the air with a curse.

But this was what Harry wanted him to do.

A second later the insane wizard took a face full of broken glass and boiling coffee. Scalded and lacerated by the projectile, Petric screamed and clutched at his face, giving Lupin all the necessary time to recover and respond in kind.

Lupin's change of pace was incredible and then it was Petric's turn to backpedal, blocking a deluge of curses. Even Harry, as untrained in duelling as he was, could see that the professor's form was beautiful. He perfectly controlled every movement of his wand, each precise swipe blended into the next.

Harry hadn't ever been witness to a full blown wizarding fight before, but he realised now just quite how absurd their duelling club had been. There was none of the formality, none of the pompous rubbish that Lockhart had blathered on about.

There was just a combination of powerful magic and pure chaos that was blistering in its intensity. Harry's eyes, so used to the extreme speed of quidditch, darted this way and that, trying to read every detail and predict every curse. But it was all a little too fast.

He grabbed the next closest object, which happened to be the circular tray their food had been brought in on and hurled it like a discus at Petric. It spun through the air, forcing the Yugoslavian wizard to dunk beneath the trajectory, and earning Lupin a hit that left a trail of blood across the floor.

Harry began to pick up everything to hand and hurl it at his foe, too fast for real accuracy, but with enough venom to keep Marko on his toes. Some things, like the sandwiches and cushions, were useful for their ability to distract. Others, such as the glass mugs and ceramic plates, were thrown for their potential to injure.

In the end, it was a banana that ended the fight.

Harry sent it hurling through the air, spinning as it flew, in a wild and unpredictable trajectory. It caught Petric in the eye, knocking him off balance and allowing Lupin to land the final blow.

A jet of white light smashed the Yugoslavian in the face and sent him crashing back out of the doors he'd entered through.

And then the room was full of people.

Aurors piled on top of Petric and separated him from his wand. Others burst into the room and began to douse the flames with streams of water from the ends of their wands. And Dumbledore crossed the room in three long strides, his blue eyes burning with cold ire.

Harry'd never seen Dumbledore so angry, but now that he did, he realised why people named him as the only wizard Voldemort ever feared.

"Are either of you hurt?" he asked, his voice laced with ice.

"No," said Harry. "Thanks to Remus." And then to Lupin. "That was amazing!"

The professor gave a modest shrug.

"I'm rusty," he said. "I was slow on the draw, slow to get going. If you hadn't been able to brain him with that coffee pot—"

"You'd have still've gotten him eventually," insisted Harry. "You were completely amazing. Could you teach me how to duel like that?"

Lupin looked at Dumbledore, whose anger appeared to have faded away. The Headmaster gave them both a small smile and glanced around at the ruined room.

"Considering how often this manner of situation seems to arise," he said. "I think it best if he did."

Harry watched as the aurors pulled Petric to his feet and began to drag him off.

"Y'know, I think he got off rather lucky," remarked Harry.

"How do you figure that?" asked Lupin, glancing at the wizard's bleeding, steaming face.

"Remember the last wizard who drew his wand on me?" asked Harry, grinning. "First he got knocked down some stairs by his house-elf. Then I blew him into a thousand pieces of pompous confetti."


	48. Chapter 48

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë**  
**Chapter Forty Eight**

"Ah it's good to be back in England," announced Sternley, from Harry's head as they emerged from the fireplace into Dumbledore's office. "Home sweet home."

But for Harry the emotions were different. There was relief, of course, and an overwhelming sense of pleasure at being safe amongst familiar surroundings. But there were other feelings there too. Shame, for his actions last time he'd been in this office. Disgust with how childish he'd behaved.

But oddest of all was the fear.

It wasn't the fully fledged terror of encountering Voldemort, or even the extreme discomfort of speaking to the ICW. It was a lingering trepidation. A niggling doubt that his friends would or could understand what he'd been through.

Who he'd become.

And with each and every inch he moved towards seeing them again, the feeling grew.

Dumbledore followed him through the fireplace and went to sit behind his desk. Lupin had gone home for the remainder of the holidays, having already promised to begin teaching Harry to duel the moment term resumed. So Harry and the Headmaster returned alone, not to the Burrow, as Harry wanted, but to Hogwarts.

Dumbledore hadn't deigned to explain why, but Harry had his suspicions.

"Come, Harry," said the Headmaster in a quiet voice. "Sit."

Harry didn't sit, instead he stepped over to the window, opened it and took in a deep breath of the fresh night's air. The world outside thrummed with activity. The quiet sound of insects in the dark, the castle's lights reflecting on the windswept castle's grounds. In the distance, the Whomping Willow waved to and fro and even further still, the boughs of the Forbidden Forest shuffled in the breeze.

And Harry knew it all; every inch. A relationship as intimate as he had with his own body. All of the magic that infused the castle, every charm, enchantment and secret Hogwarts had to offer. He could discern old spells pulsing through the school like his own heartbeat. But it wasn't natural; there was something polished and exquisitely engineered about it, almost like an intricate machine.

He remembered similar experiences in the forests and wondered if it was a by product of his more intimate understanding of magic. Or was it something more unusual? Did Dumbledore sense the same magic, or was he oblivious to the fine clockwork ticking along around them?

Harry turned back to Dumbledore and came to sit before his desk, occupying the exact position he'd occupied a month ago. He had a fleeting wish to turn back the clocks, tell Dumbledore all of his problems face to face and work them out without any of this mess.

But he couldn't.

Dumbledore took his silence for reticence.

"There are a great many things I ought to have told you," said the Headmaster, gazing at him from over the top of his half-moon spectacles. "And, I suspect, there are a great many things that you wish to ask me."

All of the questions that Harry had wanted to ask for the last month. All of the things he'd wished he'd been able to ask Dumbledore. All of the things he'd wanted to scream at someone. They all vanished. So Harry just sat and stared at the Headmaster.

Dumbledore steepled his fingers and his bright, blue eyes flickered in the direction of the instruments that lined his desk and shelves. Each of which Harry felt calling out to him, their purposes revealed in their whispers. He'd long wondered about their functions but now he found he no longer cared.

"Perhaps I should begin?" asked the Headmaster.

Harry shrugged, which Dumbledore took for agreement. The elderly wizard leaned back in his chair and met Harry's stare. There was something like sadness written in his eyes, but Harry suspected it was a little more complicated than that.

"You asked me, at the end of your first year at this school, why Voldemort chose you," he said. "And now I will tell you, because I have no other choice but to lay this burden upon you."

"Albus," interjected Sternley. "He's only twelve."

"And my secrets have cost him far too much already," said the Headmaster, his voice firm and final. "His parents, his hand, his happiness. Nothing more can be achieved by keeping this from him."

"His childhood?"

The Headmaster laughed, but it was a bitter sound.

"Yes," he said. "I suppose there is that."

"Tell me," said Harry.

Dumbledore nodded in acquiescence.

"I suppose this is a story that I shall have to start at the beginning, though I hope I will be brief, though the history is of great importance in the larger scheme, the aspects that pertain to you are far more pressing."

"It would be much briefer if you just started talking," said Sternley.

"Thank you for your observation," said Dumbledore, then focused his attention on Harry. "I was still a relatively young man when Tom Riddle first came to this school. I was not yet Headmaster of the school, I had not yet duelled Gellert Grindlewald, I was not yet the man or wizard I would become and nor was he."

Harry's brow furrowed at this statement. He'd imagined Voldemort was always the Dark Lord, thoroughly evil and rotten through. Was Dumbledore's implication that this wasn't the case? The Headmaster seemed to understand his expression and he nodded.

"I do mean to say, that when I first met him, Tom Riddle was no more Voldemort than you are today." This made Harry flinch in disgust, but Dumbledore raised a palm. "I do not mean to insult you, but the ghost of Tom in the diary did not lie when he said the two of you are very similar. Even more so now than ever before. But I digress."

Dumbledore lowered his hand and used it to stroke his beard instead.

"You are aware that Tom Riddle grew up in a muggle orphanage, but what you do not know is that I was the one who introduced him to our world. What I found was a proud, talented and extremely scared little boy. Yet at the time, I confess, I didn't see a terrified child. I thought I saw something inside him that was not there and, as a result, made a grave mistake."

This surprised Harry, who still, despite everything, saw the Headmaster as rather infallible. Dumbledore smiled, but it was so thin, stretched and bitter that it came out as little more than a mockery of a real smile.

"I grew up with Gellert Grindlewald, you see. We were friends when I was only a little older than you. But by the time I met Tom Riddle he had betrayed me and become one of the darkest wizards of all time. I thought I saw the same qualities in him that I'd seen in Gellert. Perhaps I did. But now, I admit that it was almost certainly my own reflection I saw reflected in Tom. Perhaps that was what worried me so.

"But that is irrelevant. What is important is that no friendly face introduced Tom Riddle to our world as you were. No companion at his side to guide him through the wonder and magic that he was to experience. Instead I greeted him with a stern face, strong words and thinly veiled threats. Tom Riddle entered our world not with a friend but an enemy. Not to a hero's welcome, as you did, but to a society that looked down upon him for his temerity to exist at all."

Harry wouldn't have ever thought that he might sympathise with Voldemort, or anything except overwhelming hatred. But for that briefest of instants he imagined what it must have been like to be removed from everything he'd known and dumped into a world that was both unfamiliar and inhospitable.

He shuddered with pity and Dumbledore nodded.

"I tell you this, not to encourage compassion for Voldemort but to illustrate how far he has perverted his own nature. To make you understand exactly what he is and hereby give you the tools to defeat him."

Defeat Voldemort? Harry frowned and then opened his mouth to speak, but Dumbledore spoke across him.

"I am aware what you wish to ask, and I will answer your question, in just a moment," he said. "You asked me once, at the end of your first year, why it was that Voldemort tried to kill you as a baby."

Harry nodded, he remembered asking. And Dumbledore's answer.

"In the year before you were born I happened to be the recipient of a prophecy with regards to yourself and the Dark Lord. The details of the prophecy are not important, but what it made implicitly clear was that you were the one with the power to vanquish Voldemort. That one of you must kill the other. It did not name which."

By the time Dumbledore finished, Harry's head was ringing; it felt big and stupid and heavy. Like his brain was swelling up, ready to explode. This was too much to take in.

"How did Vol—" he began, but Dumbledore continued heedless.

"A servant of the Dark Lord overheard the prophecy and passed on the contents to him. But Voldemort did not receive the full details of the prophecy and acted upon incomplete information. This is why your parents went into hiding, this is why he came for you on Halloween evening and this is why, for so many years, you have been blighted with this scar."

"I don't understand."

Dumbledore nodded.

"The part of the prophecy Voldemort did not learn, was that he would mark you as his equal. That scar is Voldemort's mark; the residual effects of what he'd planned to do to you."

"What he planned—"

Dumbledore spoke across him again.

"I intend to explain his plan for that night, but first there is one more thing you must comprehend. If you take one thing away from our talk tonight it must be this. It is absolutely essential you understand that Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort are not the same man."

Harry's furrowed brow became a trench.

"But I thought—"

"I know," said Dumbledore quickly. "I am aware what you think and you are mistaken. Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort share only some of the same elements. The difference between them is not simply in a name, their appearance and a few decades. They are as fundamentally different as it is possible for two people to be."

"But Tom Riddle became Lord Voldemort, didn't he?"

"Yes, of course he did," said Dumbledore and Harry heard the frustration evident in his voice. "But that doesn't make them the same. Voldemort is a fraction of Tom Riddle, a mockery of the wizard that existed before."

Harry wasn't sure what to say to this. He suspected the Headmaster was not doing a particularly good job of explaining himself. Clearly Dumbledore realised this too.

"You see, Tom Riddle is terrified of death, as so many are, for one reason or another. Many wizards try to find an escape from death, but few go to the lengths that he did in his quest for immortality."

"The lengths?" asked Harry, feeling dense.

"Do you know what a horcrux is?" asked Dumbledore. Harry reeled from the sudden change of direction, but this didn't seem to matter to the Headmaster. "Of course you don't. A horcrux is an object in which a wizard, or witch, has hidden a part of their soul."

Harry blinked in astonishment; whatever he'd expected the Headmaster to say, it wasn't that.

"For as long as the horcrux remains intact, the person is tethered to life. Their body can be destroyed, but their spirit lingers."

"So Voldemort created this horcrux thing?"

"No," said the Headmaster, to Harry's surprise. "He created several. I hadn't wanted to believe it, to believe that he might do something so monstrous. But you brought me the evidence yourself at the end of last year."

"The diary."

"The diary," agreed Dumbledore. "That was no normal piece of magic. Perhaps I should have known before, but the moment you brought it to me, the moment you described its purpose, I knew. And I knew, also, how you got that scar."

"My scar?" asked Harry, his fingers reaching up to touch it.

"To create a horcrux requires a sacrifice. A murder, performed by the wizard's hand. Killing fractures the soul, you understand?"

Harry thought he was beginning to.

"I am not sure of the details, not even now, but to put it simply; Voldemort intended for your death to contribute to his immortality. He wished to use your death to fracture his soul and create a horcrux. The death of the one who had the power to beat him would prove to be the last act in his quest for immortality."

Dumbledore's face was ashen, as though someone just died. He looked tired and withdrawn.

"But, as you are aware, his curse failed. Your mother's protection turned his own magic upon him. But you were not completely protected, the spell left you with two wounds."

"Two?" asked Harry, touching his scar once more.

"Two," repeated Dumbledore. "Your scar, yes. But it also tore your own soul. This tiny tear, the merest of fractures, allowed a sliver of Voldemort's own to attach itself to you."

Harry gaped at him. There was a piece of Voldemort inside him? The idea made him feel as though he'd never be clean again. Then something occurred to him

"That voice I've been hearing," said Harry, realisation blossoming in his head. "That's—?"

"No," said Dumbledore. "No, that's not Voldemort inside your head. The Dark Lord wouldn't help you."

"So who—?" began Harry again.

"That's not my story to tell," replied Dumbledore. "Is it, Sternley?"

"I suppose not," replied the hat, sounding extremely reluctant. "That would be mine."


	49. Chapter 49

**Harry Potter and the Forests of Valbonë**  
**Chapter Forty Nine**

Silence hung between them for a long time.

"Yours?" asked Harry, sounding astounded.

"Voldemort is not the first wizard to conceive of splitting his soul," said the hat, his tone grim.

"I don't understand."

"Yes you do. If I've learned anything in the last month, Harry, it's that you're far from stupid."

"You're a—"

Harry couldn't bring himself to finish the statement.

"Of course I am," replied the hat. "I am Godric Gryffindor's only horcrux."

"But—" began Harry, but the gears in his brain were already grinding to a complete stop. "But wouldn't that mean—?"

"That Godric is still alive?" asked Sternley. "In some ways, perhaps. But most of him, the human part of him has moved on."

"But you're still—?"

"Yes. See, that's the thing about horcruxes. Or fracturing your soul at all, really. Regret is the thing that fixes you, the thing that fills in the cracks and, whatever else Godric was, he wasn't a stone cold killer. So as he regretted, the wound in his soul healed, but traces of the fragment remained in me. Just enough to keep me going."

Sternley took in Harry's stupefied expression.

"Perhaps I should tell the whole story?"

"Perhaps you should," said Dumbledore.

Sternley sighed.

"So then, let me tell you what Godric Gryffindor did, in his ignorance, in his stupidity and in his desperation.

"As you know, back when Hogwarts first started Slytherin argued with the other founders concerning the tutelage of muggle-borns. He created the Chamber of Secrets beneath the school, placed inside it the basilisk, and left, never to return.

"Or so the stories say. The part they forget to mention, or perhaps didn't know at all, was that Godric learned of his plan and captured him before he managed to depart.

"Unable to discover the location of Slytherin's chamber, or coerce the information from him, Godric fell back on his last resort. In his desperation, his foolishness, his anger, he murdered his rival and used the act to create me."

Harry's world was crashing down around him. Godric Gryffindor a murderer? Sternley a product of horrendous dark magic? It all seemed absurd.

"Why?" asked Harry, his voice weak.

Sternley looked surprised.

"I thought that was obvious," he replied. "Slytherin left his chamber and Gryffindor left me, to guard against his treachery. It was no coincidence that it was me that Fawkes brought to your defence beneath the school. That was, aside from my role as Sorting Hat, my sole duty in Hogwarts."

"But I thought you said that the soul fragment was gone."

The hat snorted.

"Have I wasted my time teaching you? What does magic always leave?"

"Traces," whispered Harry.

"Indeed," said Dumbledore, his eyes kind and sympathetic as they scrutinised Harry.

"And the voice that I've been hearing?"

"That's not my area of expertise," said the hat. "But I can probably make a guess."

"Godric's, I presume," said Dumbledore. "I believe that the exposure of your damaged soul to the remnants of his soul fragment has led one to bleed into the other."

Harry shuddered. How many pieces of other people's souls were running around in his head now? But wait—

"I wore Sternley the first day I was in Hogwarts and again earlier this year, why didn't it happen then?"

Dumbledore offered him a sympathetic, sad smile.

"You nearly died," he said. "That sort of experience— It has its own impact on the soul."

Harry stared at his hand; he didn't know how to respond to any of these revelations.

"Similarly," continued Dumbledore, steepling his fingers. "I do not think it was a coincidence that night you left in the company of Godric's hat and sword, or Arthur Weasley's car. Each of you were drawn to the others."

"All the broken things," snapped Harry, his voice hard and bitter.

They fell silent at that, Sternley and Dumbledore watching Harry as he brushed tears of hot anger from his eyes.

"Harry," said Sternley. "I'm sor—"

"No, you're not," said Harry, shaking his head. "You should have told me."

Sternley looked as though he was going to retort, but then his peak sagged ever and instead he merely sighed.

"You're right, of course," he said, somewhere between a croak and a whisper. "I should have told you, but I couldn't bear admitting what I was. Or what I'd done to you. I'm sorry Harry, I knew you'd look at me and I couldn't bear facing that."

Harry lifted his hand and wiped the tears from his face, not sure when they'd started falling. He glanced around, looking everywhere but Sternley and the Headmaster and remembered the last time he'd been in this office, crying.

His eyes fell on the clock and he realised, with an abrupt lurch in his stomach, that he would be thirteen at the stroke of midnight. What a way to spend the last day of his twelfth year.

"I trusted you," he whispered, his eyes finding Sternley.

"I know," said the hat, sounding as mournful as Harry. "And that's why I didn't tell you. You're the only friend I've ever had."

Harry gave a little laugh that sounded more like a strangled sob. He was still angry and frustrated with the hat, but he knew he had a point. In all of the time he'd spent with Sternley in the forest, not once had the hat mentioned any other person with fondness. Not Gryffindor, not any of the headmasters, not any of the students.

He glanced at Dumbledore and saw, to his surprise, that the Headmaster had a slight tinge of shame to his expression.

And perhaps he should. All the time Dumbledore had been headmaster, Sternley was there. Harry wondered how many conversations they'd ever had before Harry's disappearance. From the look on Dumbledore's face, it was none. So the Headmaster, like all those before him, only ever used Sternley like a tool. Instead of interacting with him as a sentient being.

In eight hundred years Harry was the only one to make an attempt to befriend Sternley. And, if Harry learned about anything from the Dursleys, it was loneliness.

"You've seen inside my head," he said. "You know I can't blame you for that."

"I'm sorry, Harry," said Sternley again.

Harry didn't reply; he wasn't quite ready to forgive the Sorting Hat yet.

"Is there any way we can fix it?" he asked, looking to Dumbledore. "My soul, I mean."

"I have many ideas, each more unlikely and dangerous than the last. But I suspect the real question is; do you want to fix it?"

Harry looked at him, agog.

"Why would I not want to fix a gaping hole in my soul?"

"Because, and I am only assuming now, that more than Godric's voice is seeping through," said Dumbledore. "For instance, over the last week you have demonstrated an incredible ability to communicate in Albanian, German and Gobbledegook. I hope you will forgive me for saying so, but I do not believe you possessed any aptitude for these talents before you left."

Harry frowned. He hadn't been aware of speaking any other languages, but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. He'd spoken to magical creatures, Albanian aurors, mercenaries from three continents and an entire room full of wizards from a hundred different countries.

"Oh," he said.

"'Oh' indeed," replied Dumbledore, his eyes gleaming. "Have you noticed any other unusual abilities."

"Yes," said Harry, furrowing his brow. "I thought it had only happened the once, but in hindsight, it was a few times. After the fight with the oiks and in the forest with the goblins and in the fight with Malfoy and just now when we arrived—"

He looked up and caught Dumbledore's patient smile, the Headmaster seemed both curious and confused.

"It was like," began Harry, trying to think of how to explain it. "Like the entire world had been shoved into my head all in one go. All the sounds and sights and smells and tastes and the magic. All of it buzzing around my head."

"Ah," said Dumbledore, looking rather surprised. "That is both unexpected and interesting."

"So you've heard of it before?" asked Harry, feeling relieved. "Has it happened to you, in the past?"

"It is called Ambediance," replied Dumbledore, examining him with a serious expression. "And yes, I've experienced it before."

The headmaster's eyes were narrowed now, as though Harry were a puzzle he wanted to work out.

"It's an unusual phenomenon," he said, then caught the look of worry on Harry's face. "But there is no immediate need for concern. You are merely comprehending the magic around you on a conscious level. Have you noticed any odd effects with your spell casting?"

"Yes," replied Harry and, at once, it was like all of the words were tumbling out of his mouth. "I've been able to combine them; I mean, use aspects of two or more at once. They don't always work and sometimes it's a bit unpredictable. And once I felt as though I'd broken some gate inside me and it all came streaming out."

Dumbledore's interest appeared to have been piqued again.

"Very interesting. There is no cause for concern, this is something that many wizards develop when deprived access to proper education," he said. He was about to move on when he caught the scandalized expression on Harry's face. "Forgive me, that was not an insult. In the distant past, wizards performed all magic as you described; with experimentation rather than lore. It shows a strong magical talent that you were able to progress in such a manner."

Harry's face flushed under such praise.

"But you should be aware that there are both advantages and disadvantages to this. There is a reason we provide formal education to young wizards and witches." Dumbledore gave him a reassuring smile. "Again, this is a talent that I have experience with, but you are in no immediate danger. I can teach you to master it, when you are ready.

"Now, is there anything else that you've yet to mention, Harry?"

"Not that I can think of, but so much has happened."

"Completely understandable, you are welcome to owl me any further questions you might remember. Now, I will only ask for a few moments more of your time before I take you on to the Burrow. As I'm quite certain Molly is already planning to lambaste me for keeping you quite so long, it won't matter if we take a few moments more tonight."

"Does that mean I'm not going back to Privet Drive?" Harry blurted out, unable to stop himself.

"Not immediately," replied Dumbledore. "But for the next few days, I thought you might prefer to be around friends."

Harry couldn't articulate quite how grateful he was to the Headmaster in that moment. Dumbledore conveniently, and kindly, failed to notice the tears that Harry wiped from his eyes.

"From what I understand," continued the Headmaster, once Harry had pulled himself together. "You and Sternley have made a great deal of progress with your illicit extracurricular studies."

Harry flushed, realising that all the way through his time in Valbonë he'd been breaking the school rules against underage wizardry into a thousand pieces. But he could tell from the gleam in Dumbledore's eye that the Headmaster found it amusing.

"I therefore suspect that you may be a little ahead of your peers in some regards. If, next year, this is the case and you find you have the time to do so, I would like to offer you some private tuition, alongside the extra lessons you will be receiving from Professor Lupin."

This caught Harry's attention and he nodded with enthusiasm. Perhaps in his first two years at Hogwarts, he might have shied away from the offer. Maybe fearing that he was too stupid or that the lessons would be boring, or that he'd rather be doing something else.

But he was not that person any more. Valbonë had changed him; made him eager to learn, desperate to understand every inch of every branch of magic.

"That'd be amazing," he said.

Dumbledore beamed.

"Excellent. In that case, I shall not detain you any further. It is time you are reunited with your friends. And, if you will pardon my deplorable manners, you rather look as though you might benefit from some of Molly's marvellous cooking."

Harry looked at Sternley, the hat had been silent for a long time. He still wasn't ready to forgive him, but after a month together, lost in the woods, it felt weird to be leaving him behind.

"Goodbye, Sternley," he said, his voice quiet. "I guess I'll see you at the start of term."

"Goodbye, Harry," replied the hat, sounding very remorseful.

Harry turned away, a dozen uncomfortable feelings fluttering around in his stomach. He felt sad to be leaving Sternley, glad to have turned his back to Albania and he couldn't help but feel nervous at the idea of returning to the Burrow. Nevertheless, he followed the Headmaster to the fireplace.

It was with unbelievable tension that Harry reached into the small pot that Dumbledore offered him. He took a hold of a handful of green powder, stepped up to the flickering flames and tossed it in.

For an instant a wild compulsion to jump into the fire and shout any random address overwhelmed him. But he knew he couldn't run away again, however tempting it seemed.

He watched the green flames and steeled himself. Then he stepped forward.

"The Burrow," he said, trying to articulate himself with as much clarity as possible.

The ride was easier this time than ever before; Harry wondered if floo travel was perhaps something you became more practised with. A moment later he stepped out into the familiar surroundings of the Burrow.

It appeared that his arrival had been expected. Ron, Ginny, the Twins, Molly, Arthur and, to Harry's surprise, Hermione, sat dotted around the room. They all turned to the fireplace as he emerged and there was a few seconds when everybody was silent, staring at him.

Harry's stomach lurched; were his worst fears true?

Then he was struck by a wild haired, squealing cannonball, which wrapped its arms around him and held him tight.

"Harry!" gasped Hermione in his ear, sounding both very upset and overjoyed. "You're back."

A moment later Ron seized both of them in his long grasp and then the rest of the Weasleys joined in. All of them huddling together in front of the fireplace, nobody speaking.

Harry stood in the midst of the hug for a long time, feeling warm, very happy and much loved.

He was home.

* * *

**A/N - **So, that's the end, or at least the end of Harry's story. Like I said, there's still one more chapter to come, hopefully in the first week of August, which will hopefully fill in a couple of gaps that are missing. I've already started work on a sequel, which I hope will be ready to start getting posted about then. Thanks to all of you who have left reviews, I've read every single one you guys have leftand though I can't say I've responded to each one, I do take them all on board.

All the best,  
enembee


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